The New Europe
by Xcom-anders
Summary: Tell me, outside of California and a handful of places on the East Coast, how much do you know about what happened to the world? Well, you're looking at one of the few people who actually doesn't need to pull something from his ass to give you an answer. You want to know, fine. It's your responsibility to deal with the consequences. Shares universe with New Vegas: Lucky Dragons.
1. Where do we start?

Welcome to the New Europe

New Orleans. Reeked something fierce. His business took him everywhere. Town to town. State to state. Country to country. Continent to continent. Shithole bar to shithole bar.

Desmond set down another small handful of caps. The bartender swiped them away, sliding another bottle towards him. Desmond half-nodded as he helped himself. Snag at Point Lookout aside, he was on schedule. At the very least, he had the east coast cleared. Plan was at the end of the week, he'd stay south, swinging through Texas and Mexico before hitting up the west. Finding House wouldn't be a problem. Finishing the job would require assistance. The competent kind.

He checked his watch. Late. Or worse. Neither was endearing. The city had a reputation for being dangerous. Then the bombs dropped and the levees broke. The swamp took its revenge on the city, nearly sinking over half of it. Beneath the bar on the French Quarter was nearly five feet of water over the street. Stank. Full of gators. Little buggers used to be smaller.

Door swung open. Desmond didn't turn as he heard the footsteps approach. His visitor took the seat next to him. The ghoul took a drag before knocking the remaining ash into an empty cup near him.

"…Took you long enough."

The visitor pulled out a folder. Desmond took it, opened it, and examined the contents. He looked it over before placing it back, nodding slightly. "Not bad. Nice to see there's some room for professionalism in this cesspit," he stated as he turned to see her.

Nothing about her screamed wastelander. Coke-bottle sunglasses. Waistcoat vest over dress shirt. Pistol holsters on full display. Clean hygiene. You wouldn't think a spy who looked so obvious would be so good at the job. But Vana was as good as they came.

"My uncle instilled the value of being indispensable."

"Clever man. Pity about what happened to him," Desmond stated as he put aside the folder. "I'm impressed. You tracked me here and did as I asked. So, I guess you have me at your mercy. It's time for everyone's favorite question. What do you want?"

Vana leaned forward. "Where is Brendan Conroy?"

"I don't know," Desmond replied, honestly. "I don't keep tabs on just everyone I work with over a week. Smartass can rot for all I care."

Vana grimaced. "Well, easy question didn't last long." She pulled out a notebook. "Well then, time for my alternative."

Desmond attempted to cock his eyebrow. "Alternative?"

"You are what they used to call a "limey?" You aren't from here. Most people only ever know the folks they know from their settlement and few from outside. I've only ever met one other person who came from another continent. Knowledge is power. I can name a few entities that may take great interest in something that only I may be able to provide them. Tell me what happened to Europe?"

Desmond let out a sharp laugh. "You serious, doll?"

Vana betrayed a smirk. "I have a little more ambition then waiting hand over foot for some geriatric. I have dreams and goals as well. And knowing what's out there will help me a great deal."

Desmond almost laughed. "And how will you know I'm being honest?"

"If I think you're wasting my time, I'll leave and you can find someone else to help with your House project."

Desmond mulled it over. "…Where do you want to start?"

"From where my own knowledge stopped. I know the European Commonwealth fell. I want to know why and what happened after…"

 _Well, in order to get the last days of the European Commonwealth, you need to understand what the death knell was. For the purposes of our little discussion, we'll call it what the papers did in London. The Tenth Crusade, or the last one if you feel like being romantic. While Washington and Beijing whipped their cocks out and compared sizes, Europe was running out of gas. The wells in Africa and South America had tapped out for about a decade, and Russia didn't feel like sharing, leaving us with two options; beg the Yanks for a favor, or ransack the Middle East. We chose the latter option._

 _I got my teeth cut in the art of espionage during that fiasco of a crisis. Tel Aviv, Tehran, Baghdad, Riyadh, Cairo, and a bunch of other cities and places that clearly mean nothing to you. Waste of fucking time, it was. The European Commonwealth was running out of answers to the energy crisis, so to save their political skins they orchestrated the whole war to placate the media and give the voters something entertaining. But, good little public servant I was, my group fostered uprisings, leaked secrets, and overall botched any chance the Middle East had of forming any united alliance while Europe stitched together the biggest army it had ever seen._

 _The Crusaders marched once more, only this time instead of G-O-D; we were looking for O-I-L, something that people had considered to be so much more important. Still, the iconography was too good to pass up. We split the army into three groups and called them, get this, Templar, Hospitaller, and Teutonic. Between the three of them, we overran nearly every oil field from Egypt to Iran. They resisted, as history told us they would and we pretended they wouldn't this time, even after they broke out the nukes and leveled Tel Aviv. I'd call it a shit show, but I wouldn't want to imply that our leaders, military and civilian alike, would be qualified enough to run something that well. As we tore the throats from one another, and as I did my duty to Her Majesty, we realized too late that the oil was being destroyed faster then we could pump it out. Turns out some radicals figured that the war over the oil would end sooner if they just burned the damn stuff before anyone could get to it. Fucked up part was, they were right. War didn't so much as end as it just stopped, the final crusade ending up like the rest while the Middle East went back to the way it had been in the early twentieth century, only now with better guns._

 _Anyway, back to the matter at hand, the army came back just in time to see the Commonwealth fall apart. With the energy crisis spiraling out of control, there wasn't much to stop the nationalists from taking over pretty much every single nation. Without any way to avoid the inevitable, the nations took to doing what they did best and blamed one another for the lack of gas, which of course led to borders being locked every other week and what meager trade we had grinding to a halt. Britain at least had it easy, what with being surrounded by water. Every country on the continent started jealously guarding what little they had left, and those with the nukes were more than happy to threaten those who didn't._

 _After that, things just started to spiral apart. Some of the more remote regions fell to anarchy with the rule of law stretched thin as it was. The Mafia had another hay day running contraband across the continent. Some of the larger businesses and banks started hiring out veterans from the last war to "secure their interests." Germany and France eventually started shooting at each other as per fucking usual. The world was falling apart so fast we, by whom I mean those who didn't read the damned briefings I sent out, didn't realize the big threat until it was too late._

 _While you've probably been bored to death hearing about the war between your country and China, I feel it should be fair to remind you that they probably weren't the only group of …"commies"_

Desmond could barely suppress an eye roll

 _That threatened our very existence. Despite taking a back seat to China at the turn of the century, the Soviet Union merely bided its time until it felt like there was a weak enough opening to finish what it had been trying to accomplish for the last hundred or so years. We should have realized something was wrong when the Kremlin sat out the Final Crusade. Surprising no one who did not have a sack of waste in their skulls, the Soviets had spent the last few decades quietly building up their forces, keeping their shit secret as they played around with some… unconventional approaches to conventional warfare. Shit that would turn out to be some of the main reasons I don't look back across the pond with wistful eyes._

 _Still, there was no avoiding the fact that nuclear war was on the horizon. Project Safehouse wasn't the only post-apocalyptic plan the world prepared. As I'm sure the Enclave and House could attest, some groups were better prepared for the end than others. Britain focused on air defense, hoping to blow every missile out of the sky that didn't aim to land on Paris. Others, like in the Scandinavian countries, looked to hide out in the countryside. And some cheeky fuckers, like the Swiss, had been preparing for the atomic age since Hiroshima, standardizing their bunker networks in ways that would put Vault-Tec to shame. (Not that difficult an endeavor, I realize.)_

 _In the decade leading up to the light show, I'd been… running something of a nostalgia tour, let us say. Trying to convince certain groups that had once been members of the largest empire in the world to reunite after MAD took care of the two biggest kids on the block. Of course, that didn't happen. We can thank the Kremlin for that. On the day that the nukes launched, the Soviet Union couldn't hold itself back any longer, launching a massive assault through the Balkans, catching the Polish and Hungarians off guard. Germany, France, Italy and ours truly responded predictably, stalling the advance with our nukes even though we knew the reprisal. So as with China and the United States, so too with Europe and the Soviet Union._

Desmond finished his drink as Vana eyed him up. Desmond would let her down gently. She wasn't his type. Besides, he'd had more than enough fun before deliberately rotting himself to live forever.

"So Europe is dead?" Vana questioned.

"About as dead as North America," Desmond responded sarcastically. Outside, the thrashing of a gator was nearly drowned out by sounds of automatic fire. A blood-curdling scream betrayed that the reptile had survived the attack and got his meal.

"…So," Vana began again, "History lesson aside, what is there now?"

Gaunt almost grinned. "Controlled chaos. An ecosystem of death and despotism. A hostile environment to hero and monster alike."

Vana leaned forward. "…I'm waiting…"

The little bird was threatening to make him like her. She knew this information could be dangerous, that if the wrong people knew she had obtained this information, she'd be next on the menu after him. If she wanted in on this suicide pact, who was he to argue?

"So, whom do you want me to fill you in about?" Desmond asked.

"The main players. Asking for information on everyone would be equivalent to putting the Republic of Dave on the same order of importance as the Brotherhood of Steel. Who are the guys worth knowing about?"

 _Author's Note: This here is a little side project I've been mulling over for the last twosome years. I've kind of been inspired over something I'd seen in a map by someone named QuantumBranching, specifically their imagining of the world right before the Great War. If you were wondering, this fic does occur simultaneously with New Vegas: Lucky Dragons. Mostly it's filled with ideas that Lucky Dragons will probably never get to. Then again, this will largely be a side project and will go as far as people seem interested in it. I'm hoping this fic will end up inspiring others to branch out from the parameters set by the games. After all, there is more to the world than California and parts of the east coast._


	2. God save the Queen (and us all)

Chapter 2: God save the Queen (And us all)

(A/N: And before I begin, I'd like to send a sincere thank you for PartyPat for the very in-depth private lore discussion prior to writing this fic. I was negligent to credit them for certain features, and for that, I do apologize. It was a pleasure building this together!)

Vana stood to watch as Desmond rummaged through the shed. Pistols drawn, she shot several nervous looks towards Desmond as he continued his work. Making it this far east was a gamble, that much went without saying, but right now they had little choice. The Voodoo Convent wasn't in the friendliest mood, and the Sons of Dixie were assholes on the best days. So it stood to reason that their best chance to avoid conflict with either group would have to lead them through the Wet Wastes.

"Friendly word of advice. You hear banjos, hide," Desmond called out as he went to work.

"Amusing," Vana deadpanned.

"Honestly, I'm not that worried. I'm necrotic, and you aren't a relative. Two pretty significant turnoffs to these swampers."

"As much fun as it is to talk shit about the locals, you haven't been keeping your end of the bargain, Lockheart," Vana stated.

Desmond's lip curled. Little minx was taking him for Scheherazade. Still, if it hadn't been for her, he would've had to have dealt with the shed's former owners by himself. Now, the gators had a half-ton of food to fight over between the three bodies. "Where do you want to start now?"

"Let's start with you. Your home. Your history. Your world."

There was a moment of pause between the two of them.

"If it is too much to ask, I can wait for later," Vana added.

"Nah," Desmond responded. "No need for nostalgia. Lying bitch that she is."

"No love for your homeland?" Vana asked.

"My homeland is dead. Why mourn? I don't recognize that things that took its place."

"Things?"

 _Alright, kiddo, we may as well start from the beginning. As the Old World came to a close, the United Kingdom started to look out for itself. Breaking from the Commonwealth, we closed our borders and turned inwards, a far cry from the empire of old. Food shortages and severe rationing, not to mention the absolvement of all our trade treaties ended up turning our returning army into a police force. You just knew things were bad when the demonstrations were bad enough to stop the trains, of all things. We also finally occupied the whole of Ireland, finally got that project squared away, at least._

 _So anyway, in the days leading up to the big show, London was looking at the calamity that was the rest of the continent. Refugee crises in Iberia. France and Germany continuing their centuries-long hate-fuck. The world's wealthiest socialite practically vanishing off the face of the earth. The Mafia turning Sicily into the black market capital of the world with no one to stop them. And the cherry on top, the Soviet Union finally bringing all their pieces to the board. So, our government did the sensible thing and left the rest of Europe to fend for itself. For all the good that did us in the end._

 _The nukes flew, and they fell everywhere. London had been a fixed target for over a century, so there was no surprise there._

 _In a rare moment of foresight, the government quietly relocated to Wales roughly a week or so before the world fell apart. No one noticed because the royal family threw another fucking wedding or something. I was busy that week, so don't ask me for the specifics._

 _So, anyway, the bombs dropped and you know how the story went. We didn't have Vaults? I say good. You tell me those helped you and yours meaningfully? Don't make me laugh. We used alternative methods. Bunkers, stockpiles, quarantine zones, strategic emplacements. Responsible methods, no miracles. All the good it did us. So, good news, the United Kingdom is semi-intact. Bad news, try explaining that to anyone who lives in that maggot-pile of a country._

 _So at long last, we come to the present day. You want to know the major players? Well, it's really no surprise that in spite of Armageddon, we had more than a few survivors. Some religious nutters here, other commercial interests there. But, by and large, I can carve the isles up into three groups._

 _1\. Neo-Britannia: This is the remnants of Her Majesties government. Think your Enclave, only without the oil rig and the genocide. Reasonable? Well, consider the fact that things like "civil liberties" in these territories are little more than words. Here, you do what the local council orders, and they do what the ministers order, who do what the lords' order, and you get the idea. Survival in the future by going backward. The most novel of concepts._

 _As I stated, the government relocated to Wales. With them, they took their families, various important government officials, and a significant portion of the Royal Armed Forces. Those sanctioned safe-zones were enough to keep people fairly alive and comfortable while the rest of the isle burned. Thanks to a cut deal with an outsider, Neo-Britannia was also gifted with a prototype GECK. A reasonable compromise, until you realize that accessing it meant submitting to the Royal Council, in every possible way._

 _Life in these safe-zones is just that, safe. Not comfortable or stimulating or fair. The BRR (British Royal Remnants) promised safety and that's what the citizens signed up for. A Green Jacket orders you out of your house, hand over all your food, and leave your sister behind for company unless you're friends with his superior officer then there is no recourse you could follow. Legally at least._

 _No privacy, no staying out past curfew, no contact with seditious propaganda, work eighty hours a week at your center for industrial busywork, always obey the local council, for they carry with them the weight of the Crown. A fucking mess, the whole thing is. Glad I got out of there. It's not even the legitimate government, just a bunch of aristocrats and military officers who let the power of the "transitional government" go to their heads and drilled it into their brats so deep only bullets can extract it._

 _Who to worry about? Well, the main crux of the Royal Council's enforcement is the Green Jackets, riflemen who are the last professional soldiers on the island. License to kill, and liable to use it. Your first and last line of defense to the world at large, saving you from rotter and terrorist alike. Of course, backing them up are the Iron Tommy's. The last trade between yours and mine had the United States surrender a handful of those power-armor suits the Brotherhood fawns over. Our engineers took to altering it to suppress riots and guard queue lines. Now, if there is something the Green Jackets can't solve with bullets, the Royal Council sends in an Iron Tommy to whump it back into order._

 _2\. Albion: This is London, or rather what's left of it. When the bombs dropped, somehow the urbanites didn't get the message. Some hid in basements, others in community shelters, but hundreds of thousands hid in the underground, or subway as you Yanks like to call it. The light burned and the air was scorched, but say what you will about the underground, it was built to last. Those who hid were safe from the fire. The radiation, however, was another story._

 _At this time, I'd like to stress that the effects of what you would call "ghoulification" were rather limited. Most we had to work with were a handful of survivors at Tel Aviv, and that much was classified to the highest echelon. While I, naturally, found the process fascinating, for thousands in the underground it was a much different story. If the hair loss didn't shake them, the skin loss probably did. It would be enough to drive you mad, with or without becoming feral. From what I've researched, thousands of the poor blighters killed themselves._

 _Of course, it took a few weeks for them to realize the best side-effect of the whole deal, the thing that makes this beautiful mug worth it. Immortality on a biological level. Once that happened, most of the populous underground hit the fourth step._

 _Hmm? Fourth Step? Oh, right! I forgot I created the system myself. See, for most folk, becoming a rotter is traumatic, so I've boiled down the most general reactions down into five steps. Call it the Five Steps of Ghoulification. #1. Denial: How could this happen to me? #2. Anger: How could our government let this happen to us?! #3. Bargaining: Maybe if I find enough skin cream at the department store and a toupee… and #4. Epiphany: Bloody hell, we're immortal!_

 _Caught up? Back to the matter at hand. After coming to terms with what had happened to them, it became apparent that they could never rejoin the rest of the country. The first few explorers sent north and west tended to get greeted with bullets. Faced with a lack of options, but given enough radiation to subsist on for centuries, the rotters of London were seemingly content enough to wait out in the city for years until something could be done._

 _That was when a man named Uther entered the scene. I can't dig up much on this guy's past, making him a total ghost on my end. He was either a street preacher or a bricklayer from what my information tells me, and I can't find any more than that. Point is, Uther rises to prominence and starts reciting his sermons. About how, rather than being cursed by science, they've been blessed by a higher power. About how they are the next step in humanities evolution, vanguards of a new age. About how it is their duty to bring others to the same salvation. You see where the problems arise? I'm not sure all that many people actually believe the guy, but when life doesn't provide you answers, men like that who offer something tend to thrive._

 _Therefore, if you value your babyface, I'd stay away from Albion. They've made a policy of capturing anyone they can and locking them in a double-decker bus, right before submerging that into a crater filled with nuclear ichor and the like. Many die, but enough become rotters that they keep trying again and again._

 _Apart from that, I'd just avoid the whole area in general. They've taken to launching raids at nearby towns to kidnap people to repeat the process. They can't reproduce, so this is generally how they keep their numbers._

 _Who else to worry about? Well, under Uther's leadership, they've taken to… "re-civilizing" feral rotters. Can't hold down a nine-to-five, but they can swing a club or throw a spear with the best of them. Follow uncomplicated directions too, making them good hounds for the hunt. Most of the smart ones are busy remaking London into a more rot-friendly environment, with the cleverest of them looking into the greater implications of being a ghoul. The more… belligerent of them are active hunters, continuing to find more subjects to bring back to the nuke pits._

 _Oh, and by the by, that fifth step I didn't mention? They can dress it up all they like, but at the end of the day, the fifth step is Revenge. Immortality can do little to curb resentment and abandonment. Salvation talk aside, I've gathered that the most common unifier with the more enthusiastic members of Uther's congregation is the desire to turn the world as ugly as they are. I don't get what they're welching about. Isn't this the most beautiful mug you've ever seen?_

 _As you can imagine, Albion and Neo-Britannia get along most swimmingly. The only thing they agree on these days is that the final group must be destroyed. Which will probably be easier then either of them thinks._

 _3\. The Gaelic Underground: Poor fucking blighters. Doomed from the start, and they're just realizing it now. Largely based out of the northern end, these guys are a loose collective of scavengers, smugglers, rebels, criminals, idealists, and dissidents with nowhere else to go. These guys "run" their turf until enough Green Jackets or hunting parties show up, and they more often than not tend to bail. They're based out of Edinburgh, or Orkney, or Shettfield, or wherever they still have the territory they can still operate out of._

 _See, the problem with this group is that there is no cohesion beyond the name. A bunch of groups nominally connected by title alone. They don't agree on a plan and they can't work together. For example, one cell might entertain attacking a Neo-Britannian settlement that has operatives and allies for another one. Some groups commit to smuggling people off the islands, while others use it as cover to traffic unsuspecting buggers to Scandinavia for profit. Some cells build alliances that others destroy. They betray each other and are prone to infighting. Wasn't always the case, but…_

* * *

 _Desmond fixed his Green Jacket as he surveyed the house. Outside of a single dim candle in the window, there was little indication it was occupied, let alone housing the leaders of the largest cells of the Gaelic Underground. He glanced at the picture of the older man in his late fifties, his red sideburns now grey with age and stress._

" _Malcolm Flannigan," the woman spoke into his ear. A young blonde, seemingly too clean and soft for this world, for this business. His employer, assistant, and handler all in one. Yet the most dangerous woman in the world was in her ear, her mind, her very soul._

" _You two used to be tight. You're sure you want to go through with this?" Desmond asked casually, counting out the bullets in his rifle._

" _He doesn't want to follow the agreement, he shall be replaced by someone who will," the shell recited. "An executive referendum. He has no one to blame but himself. He knew what he was doing the moment he broke the pact."_

 _Desmond nodded. He understood. Visionaries were dangerous, especially smart ones. It wouldn't serve her to have the Gaelic Underground become too successful. Too dangerous. After all, worst case scenario, it would show the world that one could break their word to Melanie Rictoberg and get away with it. And that just wouldn't do._

" _Just have the dossier ready for me when I get back," Desmond responded as he pulled his facewrap up and took off his glasses, pulling the cap down below his where his eyebrows had been. The shell smiled as Desmond made his way to the door, kicking it in as he doomed the Underground's future._

* * *

… _that time was about twenty or so years ago. Now, it's every man and woman for himself. So, while some stubborn fools try to wage fights against the two great powers of the islands, the smarter ones have taken to building a smuggling system that will take people across the pond to the west. For the longest time, I'd figured it had been just a pipe dream. Then I discovered that an exiled Britannian lord by the name of Tenpenny had actually funded and landed a successful expedition. The Neo-Britannians have, in response, taken to locating and destroying any such boats capable of making the jump west. But the Gaelic is nothing if not as ingenuitive as they are stubborn. If all goes as planned, and I must stress these things rarely ever do for the Underground, we might be seeing some new faces on the east coast in the coming years. You ever try haggis? It's… an experience._

The retelling came to an abrupt stop as the sound of an engine roared to life. Startled, Vana drew her pistols before she realized the engine came from inside the shed. The doors blew open as the airboat jolted forward. With some adjustments, he swung around to join Vana by the pier. "Your carriage, madame."

A mortar shot howled through the air as soon as Vana jumped onto the boat. The shell missed, though it impacted the shed, sending heat and splinters their way. As soon as Vana regained her vision, she saw the riverboat turn the bend, its white cross on red flag billowing in the wind.

"Yeeeeeeeehaaaaw! We got ewe naw! Hahahahaha!" Cletus howled over the speaker. Or was it Mather? Clyde? Either way, it was some hick who fancied himself judge, jury, and specifically executioner. He didn't like ghouls or outsiders all that well. Probably had some ropes with their names on them.

Desmond immediately sped away as fast as he could as bullets peppered around them. Vana braced herself for the follow-up volley from the mortar, but several other shots rang out from the brush. The Voodoo Convent, it seemed, had been laying in wait for their nemeses to arrive.

"You used us as bait?" Vana yelled over the howling engine.

"Advanced tactics, my dear student!" Desmond chuckled as the riverboat returned fire into the brush. "Always do your research before you pick a fight! No use starting something when the parties are willing to do the job for you!"


	3. Viva Le Guillotine

Chapter 3: Viva le Guillotine

They had probably past by several of these flotillas on the way through the swamp. Wasteland traders and scavengers, with varying degrees of hospitality. Most of them were nice enough to at least stick a shotgun at your face and curse in Cajun before pulling the trigger, provided you were smart enough to take the hint. Still, some of them were friendly enough to barter. Caps for fuel, ammo, and other necessities. Higher quality stuff, however, required other venues of payment.

Desmond and his apprentice dragged the thing by the tip of its tail into the mouth of the houseboat. The weathered ghoul manning the counter looked down the creature, taking the tape measure from his neck and going down the creature. Finishing, he turned to look at his fellow ghoul, spitting to the side.

"Eighteen feet. Not bad for a tourist."

"Ugly fucker, he is. Smart though, almost got me a few times. Now, about payment?" Desmond asked.

The Cajun ghoul opened a lockbox, gingerly working around several wires. He put a map on the table, with various colored lines running from the bayou to Texas.

"Here's yer map and here's yer routes. Pick'ems are yours to make. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got gator stew and leathers to whip up."

Back on the airboat, Vana threw out the three broken harpoons they received from the melee. It was bad enough that bullets couldn't pierce the beast, but even the heated harpoons they spent most of their caps on only seemed to agitate the monster. At any rate, the sooner they left this death-hole, the better.

"Charming folks, these Cajun bastards," Desmond exclaimed as he joined her in the boat. "Nice little society they've built up. Basic civilization is better then no civilization."

"Is that what your countrymen would say?" Vana asked as she fished for the keys in her pocket.

"Story of Europe," Desmond admitted. "What little we got is all we got. You got the real estate, the water, the food, the shelter, you call all the shots."

"Sounds familiar," Vana sniffed.

 _Yeah, it's wasteland survival 101, isn't it? When the bombs dropped, most institutions fell apart, couldn't handle the weight of the world caving in, so they buckled their knees and fell on their asses. So, with no cavalry on the horizon, the best you could do was look after you and yours. You do well at that, you have the opportunity to put together a gang or a tribe. Oh, but who am I kidding, you know how this works, don't you?_

 _Well, it didn't take particularly long for the French to figure that out. I mean, I can't particularly blame them; they had the guns pointing east even if the Krauts never came over the line. Without a government telling them where to point, there wasn't much stopping some of the more ethically flexible from arming themselves and other like-minded entrepreneurs._

 _We'll call these remarkable gems of humanity "le robber barons," which I believe is French for "The Robber Barons." Just in case you were hankering for a little slice of nobility from your typical thieves and rapists. In general, they typically hole up in anything that can be easily defended. Army bases and forts, mansions are popular too, but some of the more ambitious among them tend to utilize abandoned castles. Fans of the status, I take?_

 _Anyhow, these lots tend to enjoy reenacting the feudal era; usually carrying off any food, valuables, or pretty girls they take a fancy for. For them, brutalizing others is something of an art form. Best of all for them, for the longest time, they didn't even need to make a threat to live off the other survivors._

 _See, Europe has become a dangerous place. To the north, raiders attack from the sea, putting to the blade whatever they can't carry off. To the south, religious nutters seek glory and look for any excuse to wage war on heretics. There are also those who fear collecting a debt from the underworld, rumors being as they are conjuring up all kinds of sordid imagery. To say nothing of the east, those who carry the wrath of the past and will annihilate any and all who oppose them. Huh, I seem to be getting poetic at the moment? I'll explain everything in due time. I shall only explain one shithole per story. Keeps things interesting, see?_

 _Anyway, for the longest time, these robber barons had been reluctantly tolerated. Primarily because most folks are cowards and are afraid of risking their own necks, but also because of the belief that these barons were the only line of defense against the nasties of the rest of the world. And this lie went strong for about a century or so, but as of late, some chaps are taking matters into their own hands._

 _I have little love for the French. Cultural differences, you understand, dating back to Hastings. Still, if I'll give them credit for one thing, it's that those buggers know how to revolt like no one else. Over the decades, an underground movement was formed with the intended goal of liberating France of all oppressors, both foreign and domestic. This group called themselves the Marquis, and in basic terms, resembles a combination of those yahoos you call the Railroad and the Minutemen all the way up in Yankee-land proper. These guys are really good at putting together Intel, and they've got the balls enough to try and take on anyone who they deem in desperate need of a scalping. They wear no uniform and fly no colors other than their old flag. Over the years, they figured out the proper ways of guerilla warfare, whittling away the barons' power over time. And once people stop being afraid of you, the clock itself starts to tick. Most are fool enough to try and die fighting, and as of late, the Marquis is eager to dish out its own brand of justice…_

* * *

 _Ines snaked through the hallways, listening carefully as she held her battle rifle in front of her. She wasn't supposed to be here, she didn't want to be here, but she had to be absolutely sure that that pig paid every debt she had been owed. For herself. For Jacques. For Pierre. For Marcel. For her family._

 _Passing by the window, she could hear the gunshots and screams from down below. The Marquis had breached the walls, and the bandit "soldiers" had barely been roused from their slumber when their sentries had been killed. Her knife still soaked in the blood of two who had been unmindful. Her orders had been to link back up with the main assault, but Ines was willing to be insubordinate just this once._

 _She recognized this place. God help her, she still recognized this place. She remembered being younger, scared, and somewhat innocent when she had been first brought here. That… monster, Gaspard Lamont, often desired new playthings to hold his attention. And for weeks, she had been his. So many tears shed, so many pleads to be released back to her family, still lying dead where they were shot. So many violations, so many beatings, so many threats and taunts. When he grew bored of her, once the last glimmer of hope had seemed to leave her eyes, he discarded her like he had of the others. She had heard rumors that it was custom to have his guards hunt down those he no longer desired and that they would be free to do with them as they pleased. Fortunately for her, the Marquis found her before the guards did. Fortunately for her, she met Jacques, who took her in and gave her shelter. Fortunately for her, she met Pierre, who taught her how to fight against her trauma and turn it into a fire to help the Marquis. Fortunately for her, she met Marcel, who taught her how to laugh, dream, and even love once again. The war against Lamont would take all three from her over the years._

 _She remembered the doorway. She almost had to stop herself from screaming when she saw it again. Steeling herself, she threw her back against the doorframe, battle rifle crossing her chest, barring in her still beating heart. She was going to kill her last ghost. Her last nightmare. After this, she would bury her past and look to the future, once and for all._

" _Gaspard!" she screamed. "Justice comes for you!" She kicked the doorway open after a few attempts. She entered the room with her rifle drawn. She had expected guards, perhaps. At the very least Lamont himself, possibly even on top of another poor soul she could only empathize with and weep for afterward. She did not expect an iron gauntlet to belt her in the stomach, forcing her to drop her weapon as the armored figure forced her against the wall._

 _Her eyes couldn't help but dart around the room. In addition to the one pinning her to the wall, there were three other similar figures in the chamber. All shaped like larger than average men, all wearing body-armor and trench coats, and all with the face-concealing masks that made them look all the more like monsters. They carried with them weapons that put hers to shame, in addition to the massive swords on their backs. Most of their backs. One had his drawn, straight through the carcass of the man who had once been Gaspard Lamont._

 _As Ines tried to process what had happened, two more figures had entered the chamber. One of them looked like someone had endured far too much radiation poisoning, an ailment Ines had rarely seen in her time in the wasteland, let alone one with all his mental faculties organized, while the other…_

 _The other was simply the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her life. Tall and blonde, she carried with her poise and complexion that Ines simply didn't believe were possible in this wasted land. Ines was confused. If women like this existed in the world, then why did people like Lamont terrorize people like her so much? A question that was superseded by another, more pressing matter. Just who were these people?_

 _The rotten man exclaimed something to the armored guests. The armored ones responded in kind. Ines had never had much of formal education, but judging on what little she could understand, the rotten man spoke English, and the armored ones spoke German. Ines wondered what a limey was doing this far into the mainland, and why the others were speaking Ger-_

 _Terror welled up in her once again. If these people were what she thought they were, then she would have preferred dying down below during the shootout. She did not know much of the Teutonic Reich, but what little she did know terrified her beyond words. Fate was cruel._

 _The woman barked what sounded like an order to her men, although one could never really tell with German. The woman slowly approached her, gently pulling down the arm that foisted her against the wall, and looked into Ines' eyes. A small smile crept onto the woman's face._

" _So, you have an issue with Gaspard, as well?" she spoke in perfect French._

" _Who are you?" Ines asked._

" _We… we were never here. We don't exist," the blonde woman smiled. "You entered this chamber by yourself and took your revenge. Understand?"_

 _It was against Ines nature to follow the orders of someone she just met, but something about the woman told her that this wasn't someone to argue with. Ines swallowed and nodded._

" _Excellent. You are free to take the head with you and bask in the glory of your triumph. You earned it," the blonde woman added in a chipper tone._

 _The rotten man approached behind the blonde, motioning to a briefcase and asking something of the blonde. The blonde took the briefcase. She looked down to it and paused for a moment. She then looked towards Ines, and the faintest smile crept on her face._

" _Have the kapitan escort you to the rendezvous," the woman said, still in French. "I shall join you once the matters here are settled." The rotten man nodded, leaving the room as he was flanked by two of the armored ones._

" _May I ask your name, Mademoiselle?"_

" _Ines. Ines Dubois," she answered._

" _Call me Fleur. I'm here because Gaspard took something that didn't belong to him, and didn't return it when I asked. So I punished him." "Fleur" looked Ines up and down. Clearly, Gaspard had some fun with this one. She prevented herself from tut-tutting. If he had been a good boy and enforced her will as she had asked, she'd have provided him with enough pets at his leisure. But, perhaps fear and tears were a turn on that her copies weren't able to provide? And she was still a cute one. "Fleur" was almost tempted to try a piece for herself. Almost._

" _Tell you what? How would you like to be my friend?" "Fleur" asked. "In this briefcase, I have something that can make you a hero. Perhaps even a queen, if you proceed correctly."_

 _Ines balked. "What are you talking about?"_

" _Fleur" smiled._

* * *

 _Some distance away, Desmond lit up another cigarette as the shell and the rest of her bodyguards rejoined._

" _Well, that was uneventful. A lot of work and planning just to throw that suitcase back into the hands of those Frenchies," he groused._

" _A calculated risk, as usual," the shell placated the ghoul. "With the Marquis overthrowing the barons quicker than expected, it would make due to have a few friends with the new rulers of the French wastes."_

" _Rulers? You that keen on these?" Desmond asked.  
"Keen? Surely you can recognize the pattern on display? The rebels overthrow the government. They set up a new government, based on liberty, equality, and brotherhood. They find, over time, that some deserve it more than others. Much more so. They look after their own and leave the others to fend for themselves. The others band together. And the song starts all over again."_

 _From the window in the tower, a hand gripping a severed head by the neck reached out, to the cheers of the castle's new owners. "For now, let them bask in their triumph. Ines Dubois shall go down in history a hero of the revolution. Not only in liberating her people, but giving back life to the wastelands. More then a hero, she'll be seen as a deity down the line."_

" _Quite the gift you have bestowed upon her. Godhood isn't something you've been known to share, Mel," Desmond spoke._

 _The shell bristled, just slightly. "Names, Lockheart. Anyway, this gift won't come cheap. My master will be very…hands on with her new client. I told her she's invited to Chateau deRictoberg, and that my master will want to appraise her personally, perhaps even invites her into the… alliance. If… that is, she promises to be a good girl…"_

* * *

 _So there's the long and short of it. A constant cycle of revolution, doing as revolution does. Winding up right back where we started, doomed to do the whole thing over again. Still, the model is nothing if not sustainable. A violent order is preferable to chaos, we've determined._

"Who's "we?" Vana asked as the engine finally started up.

"One at a time, Vana, my dear," Desmond laughed as the water under the houseboat started bubbling. As the airboat sped off, a giant maw encased the houseboat from below, dragging the building, its sole occupant, and its recently deceased kin below the water. Cute little buggers used to be so much smaller.


	4. Iberian Knights

Chapter 4: Iberian Knights

It was a lonely building on a lonely dirt road. A modest church, still standing after centuries of abandonment. Desmond wasn't much of the praying type, and he figured Vana wasn't different. Still, the storm was enough to make any shelter a welcoming one.

The doors hung by a hinge and most of the windows were broken, but the interior remained dry and habitable. The remains of a nomadic campsite on the apse of the building was preceded by the various bits of debris and remains of supplies down the aisle. Perhaps a tad disrespectful, but as far as Desmond was concerned, that just meant this building kept serving its role as sanctuary admirably.

As Vana applied some tinder to the campsite, Desmond scanned the benches. Some corpses remained on the pews, transfixed to the building that they believed would be their salvation. At least they seemed to have died peacefully, clinging to the hope that salvation awaited them at the end of this biblical calamity.

"You think they found anything on the other side?" Desmond asked as the fire sparked to life.

"I'm sure they thought they did. The brain tends to transmit signals after death. That's probably the closest we have to an afterlife," Vana answered.

"Guess I can't disagree," Desmond laughed. "I suppose I just like living too much. Still, that answer just isn't good enough for some people, I imagine."

"If I wanted to be entertained, I'd have joined Hubology," Vana deadpanned. "Get this; they believe that humans were designed to serve as a relay system to summon the Zetan's battlefleet to conquer the Theta quadrant. Good little worshipers can be expected to become integrated into spacecraft."

"Cute," Desmond admitted. "Yeah, a lot of post-apocalyptic cults started springing up after the bombs dropped. A lot of people promised salvation in exchange for food, supplies, worship, and unquestioning devotion. As you can imagine, abuse and power struggles became very prevalent in the years that followed. At least until the Triunifytes came to power and began their… inquisition…

 _OK, so lets back up a little bit. Remember how the European Commonwealth fell apart? Kind of important. Well, some alliances predate that union by centuries. Case in point, Spain and Portugal. Being joined at the hip for the entirety of your mutual existence tends to manifest that sort of thing, I suppose. Anyway, as Europe slowly collapsed and turned on itself, these two countries formed something of a united front to stand with each other against the rest of the continent, should it come to that._

 _Unexpectedly (for reasons I can't fathom they ignored) a refugee crisis in the south began to complicate matters. As bad as the European powers were at cooperation, at least they weren't tearing into each other like the Middle East was. It was so bad that I can't even remember what the battle lines were, and international affairs were my fucking specialty. What this created was a couple kilotons of displaced non-combatants. And many, particularly in North Africa, tried to find their own sanctuary from the bloodshed. Many millions entered Spain, and initially, it went about as well as you would expect._

 _The economic and cultural issues were enough to split any analyst's head down the middle. Most of the people on one side were worried that they didn't have space and resources to accommodate for a bunch of squatters who had just shown up one day and weren't ever going to leave. Most of the other side just wanted to live their lives in peace from the warfare they fled from and weren't interested in aggravating their hosts. And of course, you had your typical agitators instigating conflicts, fanning the flames of discontent like people didn't have enough to worry about. To seek some form of reconciliation, religious leaders from all involved came together to hash out something to keep this conflict from coming to a head._

 _As you would expect, they didn't see eye to eye on most things, but eventually one of the visiting religious scholars apparently made a testimonial that would change things forever. He pointed, first, to the west, indicating the sheer damage that materialism and greed had done to the Americans on a spiritual level of some sort. Then he pointed to the east, where the Chinese had been working to stamp out any form of spirituality that existed without the Party's approval. He then concluded by stating that they were the last bastion of the Almighty's kingdom, and rather than go to war, had to make a stand against the nihilism that threatened to claim humanities soul._

 _Now, I'm no religious scholar, so debating the merits of what his testimonial was is beyond my capacity, but apparently, he started something that resonated with the hard-lining religious leaders within the meeting. They unanimously agreed to throw him out and brand him a deranged apostate, as per the usual._

 _While the purists were content to reignite the fucking crusades as if that never got old, people began flocking to this scholar, with a lot of his ideas resonating with refugees and the poor alike. In his mind, for religion to survive what was increasingly looking like the end of the civilization, it had to put aside its differences and create something newer and hardier, with less dogma and more charity. And so, he and his disciples went to work creating a new set of rules for a new order._

 _Then the bombs dropped, and much of what we could have learned about the scholar had burned away. I don't even know if his name or even his original faith had been recorded. All we do know is that he ended up wearing the title of Apostate as a badge of honor. But what survived was his new set of rules. And what would become the most powerful religion of the new Europe; the House of Triunification._

 _Basically, this scholar had attempted to reconcile the three biggest Abrahamic religions into a single, unified creed. You weren't born during this time, so you have no idea what an insane and massive endeavor this was. Most people considered the guy crazy, but then again, isn't that how most religions start? And it certainly provided a better alternative than a cultural civil war, so it didn't lack for enthusiastic disciples, regardless of race or former creed. And as luck would have it, guess what faith kept a lot of its members? And quite a few of these members knew how to and were willing to fight._

 _A lot of what would have been the first raiders on the Iberian peninsula were stamped out and defeated before they could become major threats. Rather than killing them all, the Triunifytes gave them options to either convert, face exile, or be killed. Such conduct made the Triunifytes even more popular among the surviving masses. Rather than risk the anarchic status quo the rest of the continent was enduring, by and large, the masses offered the Triunifytes a position to lead them into the future. In short, before long the Iberian Peninsula became a theocracy._

Vana winced through her teeth. "Exactly," Desmond nodded.

 _The Triunifytes began spreading across the peninsula, issuing holy orders and decrees. Let me see if I can remember a few…_

 _Every House of Triunity has issued a minister of religious affairs, who is typically on equal standing as any secular town leader, except they have the backing of the Council of Apostates. They mostly minister to the locals, serving the destitute and hungry while chiding those who don't honor the codes._

 _For example, the seventh day is to be marked by worship and fasting. No food, drink, intercourse, or gambling is to occur especially on this day. This practice was probably started due to the resource shortages after the bombs had dropped to keep the population under control, but I digress._

 _Strict curfews are enforced. With noted exceptions, no one is to leave their house or shelter at night. The night was intended for rest, and to go against it is dishonorable. Probably started to keep thievery and subterfuge under control._

 _A portion of whatever ones income is to be given to the local Sacred House, who is to dispense it as needed to the less fortunate. On the surface, this is claimed to be in place to separate oneself with materialism and greed, specifically. I won't bother with explaining the alternative view, as it should be obvious._

 _Perhaps surprisingly, most ministers have a somewhat liberated view of sexuality. Maybe coming close to extinction causes some people to reprioritize, but the Triunifytes seem more accepting of… alternative lifestyles then their predecessors had been. There are still some conditions, though, mostly about remaining faithful to a spouse and how to treat and rear children. Oh, and fun fact, members of the clergy are not only allowed to marry but are the only ones allowed to practice polygamy. Isn't that interesting?_

 _Also, there is a ban on firearms in the borders of Spain and Portugal themselves. Most guns are relegated to the French border to keep out trespassers and uninvited outsiders. The Triunifytes do allow various members of the clergy to have firearms (naturally) but I'll get to explaining that eventually._

 _So, there is a various hierarchy that dominates how things are run. The ministers answer to the regional clerics, who answer to either a bishop, imam or rabbi, depending on the city they reside in. From there, they receive orders from the Council of Apostates, who from my understanding are a bunch of old folks who stroke their beards if they have them and ponder the nature of humanity while telling them what they can and can't do._

 _Things went off without a hitch for the first century or so. Then the alternative faiths began to appear, and some were a little… off-putting. An odd ritual here, a blood sacrifice there, it began to appear to the Triunifytes that the rest of the country had gone savage. How unlikely it must be that these could just be disturbed individuals trying to cope with finding some meaning in this broken world. And it was inconceivable that the Council of Apostates would be more ambitious then presiding over what had become a mountainous desert, asserting its authority over a generally placated audience. So, they created the solution before the problem could get worse._

 _The Holy Warrior sect is pretty much what you would expect. Various soldiers, commanded by the city bishop or imam, would enforce the religious laws and clamp down on anything that was deemed heretical. These are the guys allowed guns, but usually, they can be denoted by the swords they carry and are noted to be exceptionally good with blades. Also, in keeping with their expectation of discipline, they are generally expected to live lives of temperance and celibacy, and shockingly a few actually take it seriously. Of course, these soldiers are fairly brutal to any raider or heretic that makes the unfortunate mistake to enter the Iberian peninsula, but they themselves rarely ever leave their borders. Not unless an inquisitor is calling the shots._

 _The inquisitors are nasty pieces of work on the best days. The lot of them are the twisted left hands of the Three Fathers. The ones who use abduction, torture, and intimidation to drive out and away any semblance of a competing faith. This wouldn't be so bad if they were just confined to the local borders, but I've heard of reports of them leading expeditions into France and Italy to locate whatever happens to be passing for a heretic that particular week. I'm sure once upon a time their existence was justifiable, probably kept the raiders and sickos in line. Now, though, they just do the Apostate's dirty work, as harsh reminders of the Three Fathers' love. Only the insane would try and oppose them…_

* * *

 _The torch made its way down the cave entrance. Surveying the area, the soldier in his makeshift heavy armor indicated his companions join him at the bottom. He was joined by three of his brethren and their leader, a severe-looking man in robes and a wide-brimmed hat. Wearily, he eyed the contraband that they had located. Menorahs, crosses, prayer mats, and various scrolls and books. Someone had been collecting contraband, relics from a far more barbaric era, before the Triunification. It would be his duty to purify this place of such unsanctity._

" _Brother Guillermo, if you will," the inquisitor beckoned his assistant, who passed the torch. "Prepare the site while I recite the prayer if you will."_

 _As the holy knight emptied his container of gasoline, an artifact requisitioned by the recent Council of Apostates for this very task, the inquisitor began his prayer. "By the Holy Three, blessed shall they be forever more, we beseech upon you all for wisdom and vision in these trying days. Lest not ever forget us our duty to cleanse the world of the wretched past, to leave such perilous detriments where they belong, and to provide us with your future until the end of all things on this Earth, now and forever more…"_

" _Amen, you sanctimonious cretin."_

 _The three guards all turned to face the entrance, arming their rifles. A man stood at the top, saber hanging to his right, scimitar to his left, and a carbine on his back. He wore civilian garb, though some cuts in his tunic betrayed some armor underneath. And that smug face he wore had been plastered all over the country, having amassed a bounty no one had ever managed to collect._

" _I had a feeling I'd find you here, my prodigal brother," the inquisitor sneered. "You haven't shamed our order enough simply by leaving, you surround yourself with heretical paraphernalia?"_

" _There is no shame in studying the past, Leon," the man kept smiling. "Nothing worth destroying history for. It's a bunch of old books and relics as far as you are concerned, certainly nothing worth dying over."_

" _Glad to see some sense remains in you," Leon growled as he reached for his pistol._

" _Nor is it worth killing for," the man's face hardened. "I saw your handiwork on my way here. Is that anyway a holy man should treat those scared and helpless?"_

" _They were knowingly aiding a heretic by providing you with shelter and preventing our judgment from enacting itself upon you," the inquisitor snarled._

" _Most of them were children," the man shot back. "They spent their whole lives reciting your words, and only wanted to provide charity for a lost and hungry man. For that "crime," they are roasted alive in their own home?"_

" _This is a hard world, brother Cueto," Leon replied as he leveled his gun. "You understood that, once. Come quietly, I'm sure I can convince the Council of Apostates that our long lost inquisitor only lost his judgment for a moment, and penance can be provided for very little if you are serious about repenting."_

" _The only repenting I seek," Mustafa Cueto exclaimed as he drew his saber, "is ensuring that your wretched order can't hurt anyone ever again. Go back to your master in Toledo and tell him that any inquisitor he sends after me, any that I stumble across, will be lost to him. And if you keep sending out these little crusades, my friends will see the Council broken."_

" _Friends," Leon balked. "You have recruited other heretics?"_

 _A well-dressed ghoul snaked from around a stalagmite, plugging a hole in one of the armored knights. A woman sniped another in the skull, knocking him to the ground. In the chaos, Mustafa leaped down the entrance, closing the distance with Leon. Leon raised his hand in an attempt to protect himself. From that day forward, Mustafa would keep that hand._

* * *

 _Later, the three exited the cave, content that their work had been done. "Don't the inquisitors usually have their approach screened by assassins?" Desmond asked as he pulled out a cigarette._

" _They do, and he did," Mustafa acknowledged as wiped off his blade. Desmond nodded as he noticed the corpse of a masked killer propped against a tree. "You would know the tricks."_

" _Indeed," Mustafa muttered grimly. "I do not seek war against the Triunification, but their actions and behavior as of late do not fill me with confidence."_

" _Our boss feels the same way," Desmond agreed. "We've arranged for some assistance from Sicily should the Apostates allow the inquisitors free reign across the continent."_

" _And the Marquis will not tolerate any further tyranny, even from holy men," Ines Dubois spoke up._

 _Mustafa smiled. "I am most grateful. Still, having rebels and criminals for allies against one's old faith doesn't do much to soothe the conscience. Like asking demons to purify a church. No offense."_

 _Desmond laughed. "None taken. As nervous as you are, believe me, I'm not sending demons to help you. I know what they look like."_

 _Ines looked at him. "You have such a low opinion of your Kraut allies?"_

" _No, I'm not talking about… nevermind. So, my dear ex-inquisitor, do we have an agreement?"_

 _Mustafa bowed. "If she will help, I shall assist with your master as needed."_

" _Excellent. Come along, Dubois, your countrymen will miss you." Desmond said as he headed off._

" _Mustafa, will you be alright?" Ines asked._

" _I have work to do, yet, but I shall live," Mustafa smiled, sadly. "First by giving some good Samaritans a proper burial."_

" _It's not your fault, Mustafa," Ines began._

" _The least I can do for them is prevent the next from happening," he replied. "That is my burden. And with that, I thank you for your assistance," he finished as he kissed her hand. "One of these days, we should go to Valencia. It is rather beautiful when I'm not a wanted man there. Until then, I await our next meeting."_

"Kind of a cheese ball if you ask me, but a decent sort, handles himself well in a fight," Desmond admitted. Vana kept poking at the embers as he reminisced. What he wouldn't give for an Ines or a Mustafa some days. Only reason he tolerated Brendan as much as he did was that he almost reminded him of them. Plus he was good with his poor pups.

"So, that's Spain and Portugal in a nutshell. Two for the price of one. I'm getting generous in my old age, I suppose."

"Desmond, those are some ugly looking pictures on the walls." Vana began, nonchalantly.

The church didn't have any pictures. Only windows. Desmond suddenly realized why people more people didn't use this church as a shelter. Unfortunately for the vicious looking hillbillies standing outside, these lost lambs of God were packing a lot of heat. After all, when in Texas…


	5. Mobsters Paradiso

Mobsters Paradiso

The saloon had enough amenities to hold them over for the moment. Aesthetically, it looked every bit like the old American boom-town Desmond had read about as a kid, only with a lot more automatic weapons then back then, presumably. Having blasted itself back to a pre-industrial level, it didn't come as much of a surprise to see the West become untamable. More like feral.

At the moment, it seemed like a local raider lord had been killed in a shootout, and now this town was being flooded with gun-for-hires eager to fight and kill for a larger piece of the proverbial pie. Or, on the off-chance of recognizing the futility of such actions, hiring themselves out as bodyguards to some travelers looking to go southwest with little incident.

Vana took her seat beside him. Desmond took a swig before acknowledging her. "…Anyone?"

"Found this crew of gunslingers run by this hotshot named Eduardo Ximenez, or Two-Barrel Eddie from the wanted posters."

"A crew? We don't exactly have that much capital on us," Desmond groused.

"Perhaps not, but I did manage to get in contact with his sister, and she seems… open to prospective talent and opportunities. In short, if we make it worth her while, we can ride with them into Legion territory."

Upon learning more information about the group that called itself Caesar's Legion, Desmond had put together a list of all the things that could go wrong without necessary backup. While it was unlikely that two people posing as merchants would typically attract any amount of special attention, recent events involving the death of their eponymous leader and their second defeat at Hoover Dam had left a somewhat… nebulous status of the Southwest's stability. Friends would be welcome.

"As tempting as b-lining it straight to Vegas sounds, I think dipping into Mexico before we reach it would be the saner course of action," Desmond stated.

"You sure? The rumors I've heard indicate otherwise," Vana added.

"Certainty is a fickle thing," Desmond explained. "This war in Nevada should play out a little longer before we can assess certain conditions. House is a big fish, Vana. Maybe this Perez guy already did our work for us, we can't say for certain. We can't risk him pulling us under."

"I'm surprised no one here wants a go out west. There are enough outlaws here to start an army," Vana said as she looked around.

Desmond laughed. "Army? Listen, Vana, you're bright, but there are still some things you ought to learn; you don't become an outlaw by cooperating with others."

"So, an outlaw is a criminal looking out for himself?" Vana responded. "What happens if they tend to work together?"

 _Funny you should ask. Quick history lesson for context, love. Let us go back, as usual, to before the fall of the Commonwealth. Near the end of the twentieth century, organized crime was at a bit of a standstill. Sure, graft and corruption were at an all-time high, but this was the era of the DIY'ers, and as time began to go on, the crime families of the days of yore started to feel a tad antiquated. The Italian Mafia, for instance, went from a criminal empire to a shriveled remnant not long after the new millennia began._

 _Of course, good things come to those who wait. As the resources began to dry up and nationalism came back with a vengeance, the Mafia, as it is wont to do, sensed opportunity. While borders were closed and trade ground to a halt, the Mafia was probing for weaknesses and vulnerabilities in these new European walls. Once they found them, the new kings of transnational trade made their move._

 _See, the Italians were not unfamiliar with weak governments and financial meltdowns. The common solution to someone not having what you needed was finding someone who did and being prepared to pay out the nose for it. Initially, this was just the usual minor stuff. Illicit substances, banned material, goods from "sanctioned" nations, but then as time went on, more opportunities arose._

 _Interpol didn't so much as have its budget slashed as much as it had been drawn and quartered. Without eyes keeping the mafia in check, they began growing bolder. Weapons, people, and classified information began passing through the border with increasingly regular intervals, and the Mafia was growing more powerful for it. How strong? I had been granted access to some of the highest echelons of power in my own government, and even I needed to tread lightly with some of my contacts in Italy. It wasn't so much a "power" thing as much as it was a "these people are good at being dangerous" thing._

 _All good things never last, however. The leadership began seeing the writing on the wall about the fate of Europe as time went on, and began taking measures to deal with it accordingly. Everyone always rags on about the criminal element for it being violent, but to me its when they start being efficient that they begin to scare me. They began building their own vaults and charging almost ridiculous fees to wait out the storm. Of course, a lot of these jobs were done on the quick and hardly up to snuff structurally, let alone legally, but the Mob itself was more concerned with protecting itself. The bosses, their crews and families all headed to their own safehouses in Sicily, took part in their own vault and waited for the end of the world._

 _Once it passed, the survivors poked their heads out, looked around, and began rebuilding and salvaging the network of connections they had maintained in the past. Of course, things were a lot different now, but some things didn't change; people still wanted stuff, and would still pay a lot to get it. Just because European money wasn't valuable didn't mean you couldn't still strike a deal. From that point forward, from their heart of power on the island of Sicily, the new family was laying its foundations._

 _Which brings us to today, and what does this new mob have in store for us? Well, the big winner of the various gang feuds was a man named Andre Ossani, and from that day forward, he's remained top dog. Rare thing to see someone as rotten as they truly are on the outside, isn't it? Heh-heh. Thing that kept him alive (apart from the radiation) was his ability to adapt to his circumstances. Most see the ruined planet and give up then and there, going feral and stupid. Ossani sees people struggling to survive, build, create something of a future, and are willing to do anything to get it. The perfect recipe for profit._

 _The majority of his workforce consists of delivery boys, more or less. They run food and supplies under the noses of less than hospitable locals to those who are more agreeable. This allows the Ossani's favorites to thrive and those who aren't cooperative to be… gently encouraged to reassess their values. Most of the delivery guys are low ranking or newer members and are fairly disposable in the grand scheme of things. Up from that are the protection cats, the muscle and public face of the family. Made men, all brought into the fold by a member in high standing. Most of these guys are dumb, loud, and have more aggression then brains. Still, they tend to win shootouts with the local raiders, seeing as they are all taught early not to fight fair._

 _After that point, the ones with enough brain gristle to muck up a boot get promoted to capo, a position that affords certain luxuries and perks, but also much more dangerous. It's not uncommon for capos to feud over territory, and the ambitious are usually more than vicious enough to kill anyone not able to keep up with the game. Still, it's quite the balancing act, seeing as a capo who gains too much territory or influence quickly is a target to the others, who will put aside their differences long enough to cut down the biggest poppy._

 _Why doesn't the leadership intervene? Good question. Apparently, they like to test their members this way. A capo who can accumulate enough power and hold it is worthy of interest, and greater things are in store for those who can both gain AND hold power, seeing as so many people aren't able to distinguish such an important distinction. Anyone who impresses them enough is invited to the headquarters in Sicily, and from there, they are introduced to the family proper and are open to the world at large._

 _The Ossani mob is centralized in Italy but has branches that stretch throughout the continent. They give the Marquis their guns. They smuggle the persecuted from Spain. For the longest time, it was their association with the Ossani that allowed the Gaelic Underground to survive. And they are a key factor in gathering information for… my employer. Their spycraft is almost enough to impress me._

 _You seem disappointed? I realize my description doesn't seem to sell just how powerful or dangerous these guys are. A bunch of greasy mooks in fancy suits talking about family and eating significant quantities of homecooked food doesn't really do justice to one of the most feared organizations in the New Europe, huh? Well, that's because I didn't tell you about Malocchio._

 _Malocchio is the Ossani crime family's answer to problems that don't feel cooperative. When someone insults and disrespects Ossani in both a severe and unrepentant manner, they usually only have to hint that Malocchio is on the way before the situation is rectified. Malocchio is nothing less then the primere assassin in Europe._

 _I see you aren't impressed. Can't say I'm surprised. After all, everyone in this dump of a town with a working trigger-finger and some bullets can call themselves an assassin. But Malocchio is on a different level. Malocchio works in ways I can't even fathom. Sometimes, a fleeing debtor is killed in a very convenient looking accident. Other times, a man who gravely wounds a favored capo returns home to see his loved ones massacred on the floor before disappearing. And considering how rarely Malocchio is summoned, even I don't know if it's just one man or some twisted fratellanza oscura. But I have seen the handiwork…_

* * *

 _The thieves had been desperate but well organized. The Panzerwulf patrol didn't even know what had hit it. An explosion knocked the vanguard on their asses while the rear was pinned down by the ambush. It was enough for them to snag the package and flee across the Ruhr. Along the way, they had handed it down to an allied lorry, who took it to the safehouse near Brussels. Here, the six took their rest and waited for extraction, as well as reinforcement from several allies in the area._

" _So, can we please get an explanation as to why we are getting the Panzerwolves property back for them and not having them just get it themselves?" Mustafa asked as he took inventory of his carbine ammo._

" _Because these guys are parked next to a scavenger camp and a friendly village. Getting those monsters involved would jeopardize both of their safety," Ines growled as she checked the building through her scope._

" _The Panzerwolves, in general, are hammers," Desmond explained. "We were hired to be the scalpel. Precision, my dears. We're just here to get the property back to our mutual employer."_

" _So, how many do you think are inside? Twenty? Thirty?" Mustafa asked._

" _Not important," Desmond replied as he looked up to the moon._

" _So, you have faith in our skills?" Mustafa asked with just the barest hint of pride._

" _Not particularly. I'm saying it isn't going to come to that. Turns out that present they stole was a gift to some of our friends down south. They've sent one of their own in to punish the malcontents, our job is simply retrieval," Desmond said as he checked his watch. "Right, on me, let's go," he muttered as he grabbed his shotgun._

 _Ines and Mustafa were tempted to stick to the shadows and find a back way into the mansion ahead, only to watch as Desmond simply marched up to the building and knock on the door. He turned to look at them. "Well, come on in," he said as he pulled the doorway open._

 _The mansion had apparently been used as a hotel some two centuries prior. There was a front desk with a sentry sprawled over the table, bleeding. Another had apparently been resting in the lounge by the fireplace, his neck broken. Weaving down the hallway, occasionally several doors had been opened, their occupants all lying dead on the floor. "Looks like a bunch of French mercenaries," Desmond said aloud. "Anyone look familiar, Dubois?" Ines didn't say anything._

" _We were staking this place out for hours," Mustafa spoke. "And we didn't hear a thing."_

" _He's a pro," Desmond replied. "Word of warning, be on your best behavior if we link up. Don't ask him any questions. Don't interrupt his work. Don't get in his way or give him any sass. Just because he's professional doesn't mean he has to be nice."_

" _Who is this guy, the devil?" Mustafa joked._

" _Close," Desmond admitted._

 _The sound of automatic fire and screaming from above alerted all three. "Well, now one of them had to get spooked," Desmond groused as he charged towards the stairs. "C'mon! We might catch one of them alive if we're quick!"_

 _Reluctantly, the other two joined him as they climbed the stairs. From the sounds of the firefight, the distance began to close even as the noise started to die down. Desmond took note of the accents of the screaming. "Nice Scottish brogue they got going on. Looks like the Gaelic Underground isn't done fighting," he said as they passed by several still warm corpses. As they approached the directory, they saw a decrepit sign with the words "executive suite," on the side. "Guess boss man had to have the better digs," Desmond exclaimed as he saw the pried open doorway. Pressing his back to the frame, he peeked inside. The tall imposing figure had his back turned to him, pointing his silenced pistol towards the burly red-haired man, who in turn had his gun pointed at the temple of a young blonde-haired woman wearing a frock, who seemed more confused by the circumstances then frightened._

" _Fecking monster!" the Scot snarled. "Wot gave? We've no quarrel with ye!" he snarled._

" _You have quarrel with us, Kendrick," Desmond shouted from the frame._

" _Lockheart? Should've known," Kendrick spat. "You've been nothing but trouble. You and the bint. I should just blow her brains out here."_

" _Come on now, Kendrick. I promise I won't kill you if you hand over the property unharmed. Who do you trust more; me or tall, dark, and violent?"_

"… _Feck you, Lockheart," Kendrick hissed. "…FECK YOU!" as he fired into the face of his imposing captor. The man barely winced as he returned fire, expertly navigating his shot around the hostage and directly impacting Kendrick's skull. The woman turned to watch her captor slump to the floor. She turned to the four strangers. "…Are you to be my new masters?"_

" _Project Mortal Ascension Base Command; negation of the dreamland is vital," Desmond commanded. The young woman seemed to fade out of consciousness, falling into what could only be described as a coma. Desmond headed over to check her vitals while the stranger reached down to pick up his ruined facemask. Ines managed to steal the briefest of glances to the man's face. The one thing that was apparent, evidently, was that the man was suffering from rad-rot, or at least that was what it seemed. Most people with rad-rot had burns covering their bodies, but this was the first time she had seen someone look downright scorched. Like charcoal. The eyelids of at least one side of his face seemed to have been burnt away, leaving the eye somehow suctioned into his sockets by some unknown invisible threads. Honestly, his face seemed to resemble a nearly naked skull more then any other rad-rotter she had ever seen. Except for his lower jaw. That piece was just no longer there._

 _As the man reapplied his plastic facemask, a remarkably detailed piece of work that would convince anyone making the briefest of passing glances of its authenticity, he turned to look at the two other strangers, staring into both of them from behind the lids of the disguise. Mustafa felt his hand trembling for his revolver behind him, only to have Ines equally shaking grip stop him._

" _Great news, you two," Desmond announced, cheerily. "The project is unharmed and untampered with. Old Onassi will be tickled pink his new assistant shall be functioning at quite the optimum levels."_

" _Wonderful. A bunch of people died so an old criminal can keep his new toy," Mustafa spat, unhappy with the revelation of their mission's nature._

" _Oh, believe you me, she's more than that," Desmond explained. "She's a strategic planner and archived with the latest data and information our mutual employer is willing to part with, in addition to serving as a… companion," he confessed. "Should the mood take him," he added as he set the "woman" back into her case._

" _Still makes me feel disgusting," Mustafa admitted._

" _And you aren't even done with the job yet. Help me with this case."_

 _As the two grabbed the case and dragged it down the hallway, Ines was left in the room with her thoughts. The "woman" wasn't a flesh and blood human, Desmond had made that point abundantly clear multiple times. But giving her to this Onassi guy just seemed… unseemly. The Sicilian Mob was a powerful ally, sure, and even she had relied on their services from time to time with the Marquis, but that didn't change the fact that doing a job like this required her to become a little more morally flexible then she was used to. Perhaps Desmond was right, and she was too soft for…_

" _HHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"_

 _A visage of death filled her vision. Ines screamed and fell back, pulling for her rifle. As she backed herself against the wall, she realized who it was. The stranger, the man Desmond had called Malocchio, had taken off his mask again and snuck up on her while she had been thinking. She looked up to the stranger, the shock being replaced by anger. "Vous vile fils de pute!" she spat._

 _The stranger proceeded to make an odd crackling noise as he put his mask back on. He took one last look at her, shaking his head as he headed out the doorway. Ines realized that he had been laughing at her. She did not like this man. At all. She hoped this would be the last time they worked together._

"Eddie! Come out you lily-livered bastard!"

Around them, attention shifted to something happening on the streets outside. They could already hear the gossip.

"That's Howling "Low-gun" Jimmy!"

"I heard he was locked up in Fort Wrath!"

"Didn't he kill forty men in duels?"

"Those guys are crazy, man!"

"Look, Susan, it's Two-Barrel Eddie!"

"That jerk! He told me he'd write! Do you think he sees me? HI EDDIE-BABY!"

Standing outside, alone in the road, were two figures staring each other down. One was a stocky, hairy individual wearing metal body armor and loaded with various handguns, ranging from revolvers to semi-automatic weapons. The other appeared to be a rather dashing-looking individual wearing a poncho with two shotguns hanging from his back.

"I told you I never wanted to see you again, boy," the wild man growled.

"You wound me, Jimmy. I was merely here to rest for a bit before going on my way. Had I known you were here, I'd have said hello," the other flippantly responded.

Infuriated, the wild man motioned for the other to draw his weapons. "Come on, you yellow dog, I won't let you walk away. Not this time. Today, I'm killing you. Then, I'll kill your brat sister."

"So that explains the limp," the dashing man exclaimed. "Ariel was telling me she kneecapped a guy who kept giving her lip."

"SON-OF-A-BITCH!" Jimmy snarled. "DRAW!"

"I will, I will," Eddie replied. "You know the rules, though. Thirty paces."

Jimmy acquiesced, both turning on one another before counting their steps. The strangest thing happened on step twenty, however. Eddie grabbed both his shotguns from his back and abruptly pointed them in different directions down an alley. Two loud shots echoed through the town, followed by two bodies dropping from the ends of the intersection. Jimmy, however, had already turned and drawn his weapons against Eddie. His diversion had worked. He was going to cap this jackass and keep making a name for himself, the thought went through his mind. Followed by the bullet.

Eddie turned to the roof of the saloon, seeing the glinting light of the scope and the hand waving down at him. "Nice shot, sis!"

Ariel grinned as she dropped the rifle. "So, since I took him down, I get to split the seven hundred cap bounty how I chose, right?"

"Sorry, kiddo, boss gets his cut," Eddie wagged his finger. Ariel pouted as she dropped from the roof, bathing in the adulation for killing this week's public enemy.

"Ariel?" Vana spoke as she broke through the crowd. "Would this be a bad time?"

"Oh, you two!" Ariel beamed. "The new recruits!"

"That would be us," Desmond groused.

"Let me introduce you to brother. It might take a while, we got to celebrate, but don't worry, I'll get you two in. So, what do you think?"

"I think," Vana grinned as she draped her arm around the younger woman's shoulder, "we're going to get along just fine."


	6. Northern Savagry

Chapter 6: Northern Savagery

Joining up with the Ximenez siblings was the most fortunate encounter they could have chosen. It appeared that they were part of a much larger crew then had been initially expected, with their own established hierarchy. Though Eddie (dubbed Boss by most of the other gang members) was seen as the leader, others held titles like Hangman, Villain, Nightmare, Guerilla, Viper, Bronco and Mortician in lieu of actual names. These ones with the nicknames were accompanied by a handful of people they were "sponsoring." In theory, it was to induct newer members into the gang. In practice, it was a way to get chores and other messy duties done while the main gang was focusing on more "exciting matters." For example, Ariel was often accompanied by two twin gunslingers, whom she often called the Young Guns, who served as her lookouts and bodyguards from what they said. Eduardo, meanwhile, had just "sponsored" the two newest members of the group.

Desmond mostly busied himself with getting acquainted with the other members, an eccentric but seemingly capable group of gifted individuals. Eduardo, on the other hand, was showing around Vana, personally. Vana was… not unattractive, and Eduardo had come with something of a reputation. She carried herself a little differently around him, playing with her hands and getting flustered around him. It was almost kind of cute. Desmond saw right through it.

"So, you were thinking honeypot?" He asked later that night when they were away from the group.

Vana shrugged. "He seems rather knowledgeable. One learns not to be picky with information extraction in this line of work. Laugh at his jokes, confide some "insecurities" and after a night or two I should have a reliable overview of the southwest."

"So, you've done this before?" Desmond grinned.

"Consider it something of a transaction. I want what is in his head; he wants what… well, what many men want. If being his nocturnal confidant is what gets me what I look for, then so be it."

"And what are you to me, might I ask?" Desmond smirked.

"Your ever loyal partner, the only one who understands how you think and what you do. The closest thing you have to a peer," Vana answered.

Desmond laughed, with no sense of joviality. He thought back to his teams, before and after the bombs. His first team fought hard to keep the interests of Her Majesties government from succumbing to the inevitable. His latter team fought to protect humanity as they knew it. Centuries of cynicism had yet to boil out his romanticism. Small miracles.

"Storytime?" Desmond asked. Vana took a seat on a rock, adjusting her sunglasses. Lockheart couldn't help but grin as he looked over the sight of the outlaw gang they had joined up with. It was a wild country, lawless too. The type of environment that would break most men while causing a select few to excel. Come to think of it, it did kind of remind him of something from back home…

* * *

 _Time for another history lesson. Let us take a look at Scandinavia. Norway, Finland, Sweden and Denmark had, for the last few decades up to the Great War, enjoyed a comfortable and flexible alliance with one another even with the ever-shifting pressures and strains of the European Commonwealth. For the longest time, they'd managed to form several internal economic partnerships irrespective of the Commonwealth as a whole. High standard of living, good terms with the rest of Europe, and they were near universally regarded as indispensible to the well being of the continent. Our canaries in the coalmine, as it were. If something went wrong up north, bad things were going to happen to the rest of Europe._

 _Despite sitting out the Final Crusade, the Commonwealth did entrust the Nordic countries with a vital defensive task. The Soviet Union, despite having stayed relatively quiet for the past few decades, having been somewhat unable to compete directly with China after that whole Mongolia affair, was looking at somewhat more... continental ambitions. For the most part, Moscow kept to itself, but the EC brass didn't want to wait for it to change its mind. So, as the years went on, the military budgets of Scandinavia started to get bigger and bigger. Everything went great until it didn't._

 _See, defensive budgets are all well and good until you are also dealing with the worlds least precedented energy crises since the industrial revolution. As Scandinavia grew more and more restless over whatever Russia was planning, their economies began falling apart. Unemployment skyrocketed, industries began to collapse, and with no future prospects for the next coming decades, many decided to leave for something more promising like the Benelux countries or Germany._

 _Of course, humans can be a stubborn lot. A growing movement started spreading the word that all of Scandinavia's problems could be traced back to its growing acceptance of modernity and all of the luxuries and compromises that it entailed. As the vast numbers of emigration decimated its cities and working class, others began heading into the wooded and rural landscape to start their lives anew. Some took to fishing while others tried to cultivate something on land, while most took to creating a newer, simpler society from the ones they were trying to get away from. I doubt these little cultural… enclaves had access to the state of the rest of Europe, not that it was likely any of them cared to begin with. I doubt any of them realized anything had happened until the Soviets tried to rush the continent and the nukes began to fly._

 _It couldn't have been easy, living in the wilderness after the ecosphere has begun to collapse and alter the world as you knew it. I was in a bunker for the first twenty or so years, and even a hard bastard like me isn't sure I could have survived in the mountains or forests of a literal nuclear winter. But, somehow, a lot of them did. No matter how much the rest of Europe wishes they didn't._

 _As you can imagine, the end of the world didn't leave much by the way of resources to the survivors trapped in the forever frozen north. Most of the fish vanished and much of the land became unpalatable. Don't get me wrong, things are bad for most of the continent, but in the north things had gotten especially desperate. And when things get especially desperate, people start acting especially… aggressive._

 _I have no idea how the first contact with the rest of Europe went, how or even if they ever managed to hash something like a trade deal. But however long it took; it didn't take long for them to begin exploring some… alternative economic plans. Caesar's Legion? These guys sound like humanitarians compared to the Nordic War Bands._

 _You see, there's few things anyone living on or near the coast of Europe fears more then waking up one storming morning, worrying fruitlessly about how you and your family were going to survive the coming weeks, and looking out the water to see a dozen former fishing boats anchored right outside your town, with a bunch of screaming raiders howling from the beach carrying everything from fire-axes and homemade spears to automatic weapons. If you try to resist or fight back, they will grant you the quickest death they can muster. If you surrender and try to plead with them, best be hoping they are in a good mood, otherwise they will steal everything they can carry and burn the rest out of spite. If you try to run and they manage to catch you, you'll be joining them on their boats back to the north, where you can expect to spend the rest of your life tilling dead soil and waiting hand and foot on some of the least forgiving masters you can find. Unless they find you fetching, of course._

 _Of course, such an unforgiving nature is inevitable when you consider how unforgiving Scandinavia has become. Rather than unite; most War Bands are simply powerful but fractured tribes, villages centered on a powerful and charismatic leader who is revered so long as they provide the bountiful harvests needed to survive. Internal power struggles are common. Tribal warfare is a guarantee. New tribes tend to form in the ashes of those who grow too confident in their status when all the warriors are slain and the survivors divvied up by the conquerors._

 _Most War Bands are based on semi-nomadic villages that tend to pack up and move once a particular area becomes unsustainable. Most tribes spend days, if not weeks on fleets of fishing boats while finding another place to call home. Here, everyone pulls their weight. Those who can't fight are expected to work. Either fishing or scavenging or trying to farm some surplus of food. Naturally, the worst work is reserved for those who valued their lives enough to forsake their freedom. Those who don't work are generally the oldest, kept alive by their sharp minds and wisdom. If ever that begins to fade, however, their children will be expected to deal with negating the extra mouth to feed, however they see fit._

 _Another thing that I'll give these tribes is their simple but effective hierarchy. Freedman and slaves. Freedmen have choices as to how best to serve the tribe, and are given flexibility toward how best to better the group. The slave is expected to follow their master in any and all matters. That being said, the system they've created is as egalitarian as a slave-owning society can get, I imagine. A slave who proves their worth enough can become a freedman, and a freedman who constantly betrays and undermines the tribe can be given the choice of having their freedom revoked or drowning._

 _The biggest responsibility a freedman has to the tribe, however, is to fight. One thing I'll give them over the Legion is that they aren't shy about allowing women to fight, provided they meet the standards expected of them. Don't get me wrong. Every raider in a War Band is a vicious killer. Expecting some maternal kindness has probably gotten some unsavvy folk either chained up for life or cut down for good. They tend to be of the mind that those who are unable to fight deserve to be used by those who will._

 _That being said, most of these new-age Vikings are a tad on the scrawny side. Vicious, no doubt, but they are more often motivated by hunger more than some kind of warrior pride. Don't get me wrong, they are significantly more fanatical and clever than the average raider, they can and have been repelled and defeated every so often. Usually due to the lack of the presence of a Mag-Jarl._

 _See, War Bands typically find themselves in desperate situations more often than not. Whenever a warrior feels that their time is growing nearer, or they have something to prove, or that they have nothing else to live for, they will get in a boat personally and sail east, into the northern end of the Grave Tempest. It's a nuclear storm that has never ended, the result of hundreds of nuclear warheads savaging Eastern Europe beyond any form of recognition. So, every so often, these desperate warriors will sail themselves into the Tempest. Most don't come out ever again. Those that do…_

* * *

 _Ines had been desperate. The raids on northern France had become more and more frequent. While NWB (as Desmond liked to call them) raids were common, this particular group was at least five times larger than the average force. Upon telling Desmond and his employer this news, they had entered a conference to discuss the situation._

 _Seeing the remains of the dead and conspicuous missing had made Ines very desperate, and though calling in a favor from Miss Rictoberg was something she hated to do, it was her first choice in dealing with the situation. Plan B involved asking the Panzerwolves for help. It was an unappealing notion, knowing that the kraut bastards wouldn't hesitate to have Ines Dubois, the hero of the Marquis, debase and humiliate herself before they even entertained the notion of helping a bunch of Frenchmen. Even asking Rictoberg for help carried its own perils. She was not one to sit on favors._

 _When Desmond exited the inn, Ines all but prostrated herself before him, tears in her eyes before she pleaded that she would do anything for any kind of help against what they were up against. "Save the waterworks, Ines. We're going to help," Desmond sniffed, dismissively._

" _Merci, Monsieur Lockheart," Ines smiled. "In what way can I thank Miss Rictoberg for her compassion?"_

 _Desmond barked out a laugh. "Oh, my dear. You can't judge character, can you? It isn't kindness that sparked Mel's interest in your little plight. We both suspect that a group that big can only be led by a Mag-Jarl, and she would like to meet the bastard. And that, my dear, is where you come in."_

 _Nordic War Bands typically enjoyed raiding and pillaging, but even the most vicious ones valued and honored tribute. So, when a local slaver and arms dealer and his escorts made contact with an emissary to the local Nordic war chief, it only made sense that while a raid commenced nearby, a large fishing vessel would dock off the coast to allow a handful of warriors their way inland to the meeting. The swarthy looking fellow flicked out the nub of his toothpick as the tall, lanky and tattooed raiders approached him, his two burlap hooded bodyguards moving to their position around him as they approached._

" _Gentlemen, a fine evening to do business, is it not?" the man spoke in heavily accented English._

" _Goods," the man named Bjarke snarled, his scowl so affixed it seemed permanent. Another tapped his ax impatiently, while another slung his hunting rifle over his shoulder._

" _Not the romantic type, are you?" the slaver chuckled. "Very well." He grabbed a crowbar and pried open one of the crates he had brought. He pulled out a fairly new-looking battle-rifle, seemingly straight from the factory. "The Krauts were better at making these weapons then they were guarding them. You got me a good price and you can leave with about sixty of these new toys," the slaver grinned._

 _Bjarke took the rifle from the slaver's hands, motioning with it and getting used to its weight and heft. Seemingly satisfied, he looked over to his partner, Gaetan, who approached and dumped a sack down in front of him. It was an eclectic collection of loot, ranging from silverware sets and some antique gold coins to stacks of ration cards all the way from Neo-Britannia. There's no way I can use any of this tripe, the slaver thought to himself. "Looks good," he said aloud, moving to gather the tribute._

" _Not done yet," Bjarke snarled again, this time his mouth twitching upwards. "Last part?"_

 _The slaver stared at him before returning the smile. "Of course, do you think I would forget?" He slammed his fist into the side of a larger crate, and one shivering, half-naked woman spilled unto the ground. He dragged her up by her hair, gripping her scalp as he put her body on display. "Feisty little one. Caught her trying to swindle me of a few of my other pets for sale. I've been starving this one for a while to make her more… agreeable," he grinned as his other hand griped the woman's lower jaw. On this cold autumn night, the moonlight managed to illuminate the woman's pale body, seeing as there was only so much her open blouse and panties could cover. Gaetan licked his lips as he approached her. The slaver drew out a knife, keeping him at bay. "The weapons are for you. The treat is for your boss. I take it he isn't the man who enjoys having his underlings sampling his wares?"_

 _A very large figure began approaching from the woods. Two of the warriors turned to look at the newcomer, saluting in their own fashion as he approached. Bjarke took a bow as the figure approached. "Mag-Jarl Haldor, the situation is being tended to, there is no need to involve yourself with this transaction."_

 _The slaver, surprised by this recent development, shot some glances at his bodyguards, and once to his "slave." The plan was working as far as intended, but the sight of this new individual was beginning to concern most of them. For them, rumors of the Mag-Jarl were only that, but to see one in the flesh was something else entirely. All nine-feet of it._

 _The "man" was also somewhat lanky, though his physique was clearly chiseled from muscle and bone. His arms practically dragged on the ground, his knuckles seemingly able to graze his toes simply by hanging from his body. Hanging from his back was what appeared to be a measure of a tree trunk, the crude blade near the top revealing its purpose. And he was also covered in hair, none of which was his own. Draping across his entire body was what appeared to be animal fur. The type was indicated by the pelt of the animal that covered the top of his head, the wolf maw covering the upper part of the man's face._

 _He stood before the slaver and his prize. The slaver couldn't help but gulp as the arm reached down and began stroking the side of his slave's face. She whimpered as he drew closer, his breath washing over her. As he came to eye level, Haldor moved his hand from the side of her face to her throat and gripped her by the neck. The slaver began to sweat as the poor woman struggled for breath. "You mean to insult me?" Haldor rumbled, softly yet with enough weight to have the sound go straight through the slaver's body. "You see this shivering whelp and think of me? She wouldn't survive the voyage north, so what good is she to me?"_

 _The sound of explosions and gunfire erupted some distance away. Bjarke and Gaetan traded looks. "That doesn't sound like a fishing village."_

" _You're right," the "slaver" snarled. "It isn't." He drew out his saber and slashed at Haldor's wrist, causing the giant to release Ines as he stumbled back, screaming in pain. One of the slaver's bodyguards pulled out a knife and lunged at one of the warriors, expertly severing his jugular while a shotgun blast ended the life of another. Ines ducked back behind the crates, grabbing the battle-rifle as she plugged the magazine in and opened fire onto the last warrior. Recovering, Haldor let out an earth-shaking howl as he pulled down his ax, missing Mustafa by inches. Mustafa circled around Haldor, occasionally harassing his legs and back with quick strikes._

 _Growing furious, Haldor threw a kick into the stack of crates before him, each weighing around a hundred kilos. They tumbled down unto Ines, who managed to barely escape before the crash. Mustafa, distracted by seeing his ally in peril, tried to intervene and get her to safety. Haldor, on the other hand, hit the ex-inquisitor right in the smaller man's midsection with a golf-swing, thankfully on the blunted end of the ax._

 _Haldor prepared to swing his axe down on Mustafa's prone body when one of his hooded bodyguards leaped upon his back, a garrote wire primed and ready for his neck. The other bodyguard grabbed his shotgun and tried to blow out one of Haldor's kneecaps. Enraged, Haldor threw his ax towards Desmond, causing him to fall back before the tree landed on him, while Malocchio held on for dear life as he felt an elongated arm grab him by the back of the neck and pull._

 _A harsh voice barked some commands in German. A squad of armored soldiers approached, machine guns at the ready as they encircled the Mag-Jarl. Malocchio took his leave, escaping Haldor's grip as he jumped off to rejoin his teammates. The Mag-Jarl looked around him, realizing the enormity of the trap he had fallen into. He had taken the bait like an animal. So, he figured, if he could not be a clever animal, then he ought to be a wild one._

 _He leaped forward, belting one of the soldiers in the gut with his fist. The armor gave off a sharp crack as the Panzerwulf buckled under the pressure. The other soldiers lit him up, pelting him with bullets as Haldor was forced to his knees._

" _CEASE FIRE!" a new voice called out. The soldiers relented, stowing their weapons to their sides as a young blonde woman approached the bleeding berserker. Haldor was spitting out blood and on his knees, putting him on eye level with this new visitor. He had heard rumors of someone like this. A powerful young girl who granted wishes and damnation in equal measures. A witch pretending to be an angel. His lip curled at the sight of her._

" _Mag-Jarl Haldor. I've been desiring to make your acquaintance for some time," the woman began._

" _Go screw a goat," Haldor snapped in Danish._

" _Charming," she responded in kind. "As a slave owner, you must understand how this works then. I have defeated you. If you wish to continue living, it shall be as my thrall. If not, you can join the rest of your War Band, either dead or having fled in disgrace."_

 _Haldor growled at her. She had not defeated him honorably. It was his arrogance that undid him, not these paltry insects fit only to be whetstones and bed warmers. Still, there was a sense of opportunity that presented itself. This woman was, he was told, the most powerful individual on the continent, and had her influences everywhere. Perhaps serving her would not be without merit, as he could gain the opportunity to learn knowledge that could be put to use upon whenever he escaped._

"… _What shall you have me do?" Haldor acquiesced, bowing his head._

"… _That dog hat," she spoke. "Might you have found it in the Grave Tempest?"_

" _Indeed," Haldor nodded._

"… _A direwolf," she muttered to herself. "Markovich, you have been busy. Kapitan, escort our new guest to the manor. I shall have him attended to. I shall provide him with food and board in exchange for his service. Come to think of it, one of my servants did overheat my bathwater this morning, so perhaps providing him with company this night is a fitting punishment," she spoke to herself as Haldor was lead away._

 _Desmond propped himself against a crate, running his hands over his face. Ines was redressing herself, buttoning up her blouse before pulling her pants from her crate. Mustafa was looking away, trying to protect her modesty, even if it was futile. "I'm… sorry if I got a little rough back there," he apologized. "Desmond told me to make it convincing. I didn't mean to hurt you back there…"_

" _It's OK," Ines interrupted him as she hiked her pants up. "I've endured far worse. To be honest, I think you oversold your character a little."_

" _I don't know about that," Desmond countered. "I think he played a credible degenerate scumbag. After all, is slave driver really that far from the priesthood?"_

 _Mustafa glowered at him. "Anyway, I hope I didn't cross any lines with you back there. You're my friend, Ines. I don't want that to change."_

" _I understand, I'm not mad at you. Wasn't like this was your idea," Ines replied as she shot a look at Desmond. Desmond shrugged. "That was Melanie's plan. I suggested using a couple of her servants, but she insisted you do it for some reason, Ines."_

" _I wonder why?" Ines sarcastically muttered under her breath as she pulled her boots on. She then noticed that Malocchio had been watching her the entire time she was dressing. She spat in his direction as he gave off that wheezing laugh._

" _I'm serious though, Ines. If there's any way to make it up to you, please let me know," Mustafa insisted_

" _What, you are offering to degrade your body to serve as a distraction for a future plan?" Ines asked._

" _I mean… I'm not against it," Mustafa shrugged._

 _Ines looked at him, quickly shooting a glance up and down him. "…Well, that's something to consider, at least," she concluded, turning away to hide her smile._

* * *

"OK, gents and girls, listen up, we got some important business to cover. Outlaw Country is going to get a little hot in the near future, and I'm not willing to risk lives fighting for some penny-ante turf war. So, I'm thinking we head west and dip south until the heat dies down, find some work or salvage, whatever keeps the gang going," Eddie called out over the camp.

"Boss, won't that take us into Legion territory?" a man named Nightmare spoke up.

"Well, if you've been keeping up with current events, you'll know that the Legion is on a bit of a downward slope, seeing as Caesar is dead and his replacement really screwed the pooch in Nevada," Eddie laughed as others sporadically joined him.

"So, the fucking NCR is in Nevada?" Mortician spat.

"Wrong on both counts, it seems," Eddie replied. "Some lucky son of a bitch went into business for himself. Some courier is running the whole show, now."

"A fucking mailman?" Ariel asked, incredulously and with some derision.

"Hey, you try hauling cargo by your lonesome, see how long you last," Villain shot back at her. "I heard this guy is seven feet tall, bit the head off an NCR general, and fought off that Lanius guy by deflecting his sword with his prick!" he added to the laughter of the rest of the camp.

"Be that as it may," Eddie continued after wiping his eyes. "Taking on the Legion, whatever their condition they may be in isn't a wise course of action. Which is why we'll be skipping through our old friend Skull-Thrash's turf."

"He hates your guts," Viper called out, bluntly.

"Well, technically… yes…" Eddie admitted, "but I am on pretty good terms with his daughter."

The snickering in the audience lasted a full minute. Ariel rolled her eyes as she shook her head. "Freak bitch," she muttered under her breath.

"Quite the wildcat, eh?" Desmond whispered to her.

"Not what I meant," Ariel whispered back.

"So, this is our current course of action. You know the rules. You only object if you have an alternative. Anyone?" he looked over his gang. Not a single hand rose. If there was one thing Eddie took pride in about his gang, it was how he had earned their loyalty. Under his leadership, bellies were full, money was on hand, and they returned from jobs with full numbers. That was leadership, and he was in no hurry to change that.

"Outstanding. We move out at dark!" Eddie announced as he went on with his business.

"So," Vana began. "A courier is apparently in charge of New Vegas."

"I noticed that too," Desmond concurred.

"So, this Robert House is out of the picture?" Vana asked.

"You don't become as powerful as House without planning contingencies," Desmond assessed. "We'll swing down Mexico, check off one or two names in the book, then head to Vegas before anyone knows what we're doing."

"And after that?" Vana asked, intently.

"…Either we go our separate ways," Desmond confided. "Or you join me on a suicide mission."

 **I wasn't going to continue this fic so soon, but apparently, the last chapter really took off a lot more and a lot quicker than the last two did. Please don't forget to leave decent positive/constructive feedback, at the very least for the modest dopamine hit I get from it. Besides, it makes things easier to invest time and energy into this when I know other people are invested as well.**


	7. A Love Story: Part 1

Chapter 7: A Love Story: Part 1

Desmond chose a spot secluded from the rest of the camp that night. His bedroll and personal effects were stored near the campfire, but right now he needed a few minutes of quality time to himself. The Ximenez Gang were a tight-knit group of allies, and newcomers weren't overly welcome. Not that Eduardo was paying much heed of that, having invited Vana to stay with him in his tent for the night.

In the time he had known the woman, Vana had never portrayed herself as any kind of a romantic. For some time, Desmond had even suspected she was either gay or asexual. But the performance she gave Eduardo, the lip-biting, the stuttering, the blushing and her token attempts to "resist his charm" were all played to perfection. Vana was a cipher, any and all things to that which beheld her. Every façade was just another tool for her arsenal. To what end, even he did not know.

He lit a cigarette, exhaling as he looked upon the stars. For all the things on this paltry rock to warp and alter, knowing that the rest of the cosmos was rather indifferent gave him a somewhat comforting feeling. It kept him grounded, gave him perspective. Some stupid bastards thought the world cared enough to revolve around them. Desmond had hoped that the apocalypse, of all things, would decimate that particular notion.

"Care to share?"

Ariel, Eddie's little sister, joined him by his supposedly secret spot. She was wearing pajama pants and a faded Nuka-Cola T-shirt, her usual sleepwear. The gun-holster presumably not a usual part of the ensemble.

"Don't think I remember inviting you," Desmond muttered.

"Free country, haven't you heard?" Ariel explained as she held out an expectant hand.

Desmond reluctantly parted with one, even offering her a light in a monumental display of generosity. "Mmmmm," Ariel sighed with pleasure. "I haven't had one in ages and, well, absence makes the heart fonder. Eddie never shares."

"So what's your deal?" Desmond asked, cutting through the pleasantries.

"I needed some peace and quiet. Your partner was keeping me up."

"That loud, huh? Good to know I'm not missing much, then," Desmond laughed.

"So, what are your two's endgame, anyway?" Ariel asked. "Did we just ruin your honeymoon or something?"

Desmond laughed again, this time with a bit more genuine humor. "No, she's my professional partner, nothing more. Moreover, I don't think I'm her type," he grinned.

Ariel stroked her chin in thought. "…Can't impregnate… can't transfer VD's… technically you have eternal youth…"

"What are you going on about?" Desmond asked.

"I'm just saying if you wanted to be with her, you can play up your positive attributes!" Ariel smiled.

"You can't be serious," Desmond genuinely laughed.

"I just don't want my brother attached to yet another woman," Ariel smirked. "And I have no idea what her angle is supposed to be. So out with it."

"Her angle?" Desmond played dumb.

"She wants something. What is it?" Ariel asked again.

Desmond decided that, sometimes, even in espionage, honesty was the best policy. "Information. She figured getting closer to Eduardo would allow her greater access to his knowledge of the surrounding area."

Ariel cocked her eyebrow. "Couldn't she have just asked?"

"Not her style," Desmond shrugged.

"OK, how about I fill you in on what you need to know," Ariel proposed as she took a drag. "NCR is full of rich and pompous assholes and the mindless drones who serve them. Fuck them. Caesar's Legion is full of terrorists who wear football pads and wish to condemn me to a life of unsatisfying sex. Fuck them. Fuck raiders. Fuck prospectors. Fuck whoever isn't paying us right now. And especially fuck Mexico. Can't believe we're swinging by that place. Did I answer your questions?" she asked, sarcastically.

"I doubt those answers would satisfy her," Desmond answered.

"Just like my brother," she said under her breath.

"Well, what about Vegas, you heard about that?" Desmond asked.

"I've been to Vegas when I was a teenager," Ariel admitted. "Brother took me there on business. Did some jobs for the Omertas, I believe. Also banged whoever was running that Vault hotel. I was bored. No one let me drink."

"And that," Desmond concluded. "Is why she's fucking him for information and I'm not fucking you for it."

"OK, smartass," Ariel replied as she flicked away her cigarette. "Then why don't you tell me something interesting?"

"Like what?" Desmond asked.

"You're well traveled, right? Tell me… something about your old life. Something entertaining."

"And what might your endgame be?" Desmond asked.

"Not being bored," Ariel answered. "Oh, and I'd like to hear something other than those dry recitals about places I'll never see that you've been telling her about. I want to hear a real story."

Desmond thought for a moment. "…How about a love story?"

* * *

 _Melanie's birthday was well underway. The Italian villa she had rented out for the week had cost a small fortune, which was barely an afterthought to one of the richest families in Europe. This was her party, so naturally, it was filled with those she found insufferable. Stuffy bankers and accountants from her family, brainless socialites who shared her high-class lifestyle, and of course those insatiable parasitic vultures otherwise known as the press. This party was the most unstimulating week of her year. She wanted to be in correspondence with Braun and keep updated on his breakthroughs. She wanted to call up House and ask how his business was going, and perhaps see if he was interested in another scandalous "booty-call" if only to give those press-badge wielding vermin something trite to "analyze." She wanted to keep up with her personal team, see if the experiment had progressed._

 _Right now she was chatting with members of the Dutch royal family. She had always thought about how stupid the concept of noble blood was. Birthright as an achievement? House became a billionaire AFTER his brother stole his inheritance. That was achievement. This was just… breeding. Like a show dog. Melanie considered herself lucky her pedigree didn't disrupt her talent or curiosity for the sciences. If all things went as planned, she would ascend to a level even royalty couldn't fathom._

" _E-excuse me. Could I have a moment of your time?"_

 _Her guards acted before she even realized what had occurred. Two trench-coat wearing krauts grabbed the interloper and nearly hauled him to the ground. As they struggled, several large men came from the crowd towards the scuffle. Melanie for a moment wondered if (hoped) a fight was about to occur. Finally, the man on the ground yelled out. "Your thesis! I wanted to talk to you about your thesis!"_

 _Melanie looked down at the man. He had a rather unfortunate face, the kind that made it hard to tell if someone was a teenager or middle-aged. He was a reedy individual, completely dwarfed by her security. And he was wearing a jacket of the Red Army._

" _I don't remember inviting any Russians," she told the man._

" _I'm a guest of the Russian liaison to Rome. I have been meaning to get in contact with you, but I was unsure of how to do it. I just wish to ask you about your neurological replication theory."_

"… _Hugo, Otto, please," she motioned her guards aside. The man helped himself to his feet. "…I believe we can discuss this matter privately. If you will, could you please follow me to the balcony?"_

 _The man was, despite his uniform, unimpressive. He stuttered and mumbled. He never made eye contact with her, like most men. Unlike most men, however, he wasn't staring at her plunging neckline. He seemed like he wanted to faint in the middle of the crowd inside the villa, and only once he was exposed to the fresh air of the night sky did he seem willing to breathe._

" _So, you party crash with diplomatic immunity at your back?" Melanie asked as she swirled her champagne glass. The man said nothing, staring into his drink as he held it by the goblet. "You are a ballsy one," Melanie laughed. "Got a name?"_

" _Uh… Markovich. Aleksandr. Major!" he added the last with sudden pep._

" _So… my thesis?" Melanie began._

"… _I merely wish to ask about the transfer of consciousness from one nervous system to another biologically. Are you asking if you can transfer a "soul" into a clone body?"_

 _Melanie just stared at him. Usually, academia demanded that all research be bogged down in jargon and terminologies to scare away both the layperson and the undergrad. On the surface, Melanie's thesis came off to most as an abstract attempt to come to terms with the qualities of the human brain. But Markovich immediately saw through her attempts to obfuscate her true intentions._

"… _Perhaps…" she said as she took a sip._

"… _So you also wish to fight against mortality?" Markovich asked as he downed his champagne in one gulp, seemingly to come to grips with the noise inside the villa._

"… _Immortality matters little to me if I cannot retain my mind," Melanie responded. "So far, all of the research I've uncovered has not been to my standards."_

" _Likewise," Markovich replied with a crooked smile. "It appears we both seek the same treasure."_

 _A short conversation turned into a three-hour discussion, mostly exchanging notes and theories as well as making jokes so technical anyone without a master's degree wouldn't catch it. As the morning grew closer and Melanie grew wearier, she believed it was time to retire and headed off to bed. As she left, she realized that she only heard one set of footsteps. Her own. Turning, she saw Markovich still standing by the terrace, looking out to the ocean._

"… _.I'm going to bed, now." She called out. Markovich looked at her. "Fair enough. It was a long night. Shall we speak tomorrow?"_

" _I was thinking we could continue the discussion this afternoon, perhaps over brunch?" Melanie insisted, trying to drop the hint as she wondered if there was a language barrier she was missing._

" _No, I feel tired as well. I'm thinking of returning to my hotel to sleep."_

" _Or… you could stay here," Melanie prodded. "What host would I be if I didn't offer you the opportunity?"_

" _I am most gracious," Markovich said as he bowed his head. "But I must return soon to the consul."_

 _Melanie, growing annoyed, slid the side of her gown from her shoulder. "…Oops. My dress broke. Could you come with me to my room and help me fix it?"_

" _That's a job for a tailor, I believe," Markovich replied._

" _Cut the garbage," Melanie snapped. "I know you aren't that thick."_

"… _Ah," Markovich relented. "I understand your meanings. …No thank you."_

" _Finally, I was beginning to… come again?" Melanie wheeled on him before she left._

" _No thank you," Markovich declined again, politely. "I must be off now."_

 _Melanie was dumbfounded. Someone said no. Turned her down. She knew she was strikingly beautiful, from her face to her figure. She was wealthy, surely wealthier then surely that kasha-eating Ivan had ever experienced. And she was intelligent, assuredly more intelligent than most of his peers in the Soviet Union. Then why? What was she missing?_

* * *

"… _Hello, you've reached Uncle Billiam's Fish and Chips Pub! If you would like to place an order, press 1. If you would like to make a delivery, press 2. For all other calls, please stay on the line!"_ _ **God save the Queen proceeds to play**_ _._

"… _Hey, can you get Harry on the line? The manager? This is his aunt Gretchen calling about a sick cat!"_

 _The phone picked up._

" _Your accent is terrible, Melanie."_

" _Desmond, if you want to keep your source very happy, you will supply her with everything you know about a Major Aleksandr Markovich."_

 _The phone on the other side of the line grew silent. For a moment, Melanie was almost certain the line went dead._

"… _Aleksandr… Markovich…" Desmond repeated._

" _So you know of him?" Melanie asked, trying to hide her elation._

"… _Why are you asking me for information on that man?" Desmond asked, keeping his voice calm._

" _We met the other night. He… impressed me," Melanie admitted._

"… _Melanie, let me say this as someone who appreciates your assistance with Her Majesties government," Desmond began. "Stay away from Aleksandr, for your own safety."_

 _Melanie thought back to the nerdy-looking officer. He wasn't stunningly handsome nor particularly intimidating. Hell, he seemed more afraid of her then she was of him._

" _You're joking," Melanie laughed._

" _The man is a fucking war criminal," Desmond explained. "A mad dog for the Soviet Union. He's in charge of a penal battalion somewhere in Siberia and they've been making a mess of Asia Minor over the past decade."_

 _Melanie heard the information, but could not process it. "…I'm sorry, what? Him? The one point seven meters of nerves I met who talked science with me?"_

" _Info says he had a degree from the University of Moscow. Applied Biomechanics. Mostly theoretical, so color me not too impressed."_

 _Melanie started to get angry. "That man is a genius, Desmond. With him, I could… my dreams have never been closer to reach, I need him."_

" _He's a monster. I wouldn't be surprised if multiple nations had a kill order on him as we speak," Desmond argued._

" _Oh, a kill order from the once mighty European Commonwealth, I'm shaking in my designer booties," Melanie mocked. "Just give me everything you have on him, and let me worry about morality."_

 _Desmond sighed over the line. "Just so we're clear, if you actually chose to go through with this, you are going to Hell. I hope you realize that."_

" _I fully intend to outlive God, Desmond," Melanie growled. "Now give me the info."_

* * *

 _Markovich sat in the office at the consul, filling out paperwork after enduring that tongue-lashing from that simpleton diplomat. He wasn't still at the orphanage, he didn't still have to endure curfew. Still, at least he appreciated the solitude afforded to him. Ever since he was a child, he usually forwent attempts at friendship, preferring books to games. His good marks earned him admittance into university at an early age, where friendship didn't come as easy as his studies did._

 _He joined the Red Army only upon the realization that it could afford him more… flexibility in his research then a civilian career would. He adapted surprisingly well, even as he chaffed under certain "superior" officers. Upon attaining the rank of Major, he requested an isolated assignment that would allow him to continue his research in peace. Command, apparently, interpreted that as a request to serve as a commissar in a remote gulag in the Siberian tundra. Then again, as the saying went, when life gives you lemons…_

 _A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts on the brilliant woman he met earlier. Annoyed, he beckoned the knocker to come inside. A tired looking KGB agent entered, rubbing his eyes over the lack of sleep his flight took from him. In his hand, he held a briefcase. In an instant, Aleksandr's annoyance was put behind him._

" _You have it?" he asked, barely hiding his giddiness._

 _Boris nodded, placing the briefcase on the desk as he opened it. Inside were roughly a dozen small vials, each containing a yellowish liquid. Aleksandr, barely containing his excitement, reached in and inspected one of the vials._

" _So, the Chinese want to play with germs?" he asked rhetorically. "Give the Americans something else to fear."_

" _Major, I must ask if that course of action is wise," the agent spoke up, nervous with how lovingly Markovich was gazing upon the genetically-engineered plague._

" _Wisdom is irrelevant. This is a matter of ambition, and being fearless enough to grasp it," Aleksandr grinned._

" _Major, it is just a weapon," Boris tried to placate._

 _Aleksandr stared at Boris. Boris was a tough man, grew up in the rough streets of Stalingrad and had killed several dozen people. When he saw the look on Markovich's face, even he felt a chill through his spine._

" _Not a weapon," Markovich breathed. "…A blueprint."_

* * *

Desmond stopped as he sniffed the air. Ariel stopped as well, having heard the faint sounds as well. Desmond shot a look at her, to which Ariel returned. Ariel slowly tried to reach for her revolver while Desmond went for his shotgun. However, two interesting things happened before they could realize what had happened. One was their complete inability to actually grasp their weapons. The second was the sudden appearance of raiders in their periphery visions. They were both knocked out before they could even scream for help.

* * *

Desmond felt his legs first as he woke up. He was on his knees. Next, he felt his arms, with his wrists tied together. Then he felt his mouth, and the cloth gag wrapped around it. He couldn't see, but he could smell and feel the burlap well enough. He could hear some muffled screaming next to him.

Judging from the sounds around him, he could hear a campfire. He could hear weapons jangling while raiders loitered around and chatted about whatever it was raiders chatted about. Desmond, as disoriented as he was, tried to think logically. They had gone through all the trouble of capturing the two of them for a reason. These raiders wanted something, clearly.

 _Why, aren't you a clever one?_

Desmond wondered just what had gone through his head. That thought was somehow… not one of his.

 _I'll get to work on you later, but first…_

The bag was ripped from his head. Standing before him was a tall and lanky woman. She seemed to be wearing a tattered burlap skirt, whereas her top consisted only of various deep necklaces of bottle caps, animal teeth, and various wasteland scrap, with her hair covering the rest of her modesty. Also, Desmond was wondering whatever trick of the light caused someone's eyes to glow completely white.

He glanced next to him to see Ariel struggle against her bonds. The woman slid over to her, looking her up and down before finally ripping the hood off of Ariel's head.

The moment Ariel caught a glance at the woman, she stopped struggling. Instead, she let out a muffled scream of what sounded like annoyance.

"Oh, Ariel, it has been too long. How has Eddie been?"

Ariel glared daggers at the woman.

"I'm so sorry for jumping the two of you so rudely. You were on the edge of my father's turf. I was only serving his best interests in mind," the woman continued.

Ariel growled.

"…Very well. Bodie, ungag her. Might want to find some earplugs for later."

As a raider cut Ariel's gag, the tall woman leaned down next to her as she acted like she was confiding something to her. "So, is the ghoul a new recruit or just your lover? The thought of Eddie's little sister all alone in the big and scary world is something too horrible to think of. It was truly fortune that brought us together this night!"

"…Fuck you, Sybil."


	8. A Love Story: Part 2

Chapter 8: A Love Story Part 2

Sunlight managed to break through the tent flaps. Desmond hadn't slept a wink last night but felt too on edge to feel tired. Ariel had also been muttering to herself, cursing her rotten luck as well as chewing out their captor. They had history, that was plenty evident, and at least it wasn't violently hostile.

"Open wide, Arri," the one named Sybil taunted her other captive with a bowl of soup, aiming her wooden spoon towards Ariel's sealed mouth.

"I'm not a fucking kid anymore, Sybil, I can feed myself," she seethed.

"Not with your hands bound, you can't," Sybil goaded. "If you were to do something stupid, I would have no idea how to explain the resulting consequence to your brother."

"Can the garbage," Ariel hissed. "You don't like me and I sure as hell don't like you."

Sybil seemed to eye her up and down. "And yet without me, I shudder to think about what would happen to you if these men had gotten ahold of you first."

"The only reason they got the jump on us," Ariel snarled, "Is because you used your… magic or whatever to blindside us!"

"Ah, well, it really is a matter of opinion, isn't it?" Sybil taunted. A raider peeked his head inside the tent. "They found us."

Sybil got off her knees, brushed her skirt, and looked to the ghoul. "How do I look?"

"Cheap."

Sybil smiled, baring her teeth. "Now, Agent Lockheart, I always heard the British were a most hospitable people."

"The hospitality here is dreadful. I will not be coming back," Desmond sniffed.

Sybil leaned in close. "Then may your god help you if you chose to go down south or west. You'll be missing me soon enough." With that, she left the tent. From outside, they could hear the muffled screaming of the Ximenez gang as they shrieked at the kidnappers.

"Think things will turn ugly?" Desmond asked as Ariel kicked away the soup bowl.

"Doubt it. Eddie and Sybil used to… well, date is a strong word. Some time ago, she tried to run off from her dad's gang and join up with my brother. She wasn't so bad back then, kind of shy and kept to herself a lot."

"That woman? In that outfit? Shy?" Desmond asked, incredulously.

"One day, everything was going normally when all of a sudden she came down with a seizure or something. Real violent, like we were afraid she got poisoned. Then the next thing we knew, she was on her feet, fine and… different. Her personality completely altered. She went back to her dad's gang like nothing ever happened. Now she's just… well, bitchiness I can handle, but that woman just comes off as… twisted."

The concept of psychic powers seemed downright farcical to those who didn't have the clearance. Somehow, it seemed, that woman outside had gained something that more than a few loony cults and governments had spent years working on. That knowledge had apparently been a few decades out from escaping the concept stage. Good to know someone apparently didn't drop the damn thing. God forbid.

"…Sounds like they're working on a deal," Ariel murmured.

"Great. How long should that take?" Desmond asked.

"A while." She looked around. "…I mean, since we're alone, you could just…"

Desmond reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Ariel stared at him. "…How long have you been free?"

"Couple hours. These raiders don't know the first thing about knots."

Ariel blew a bang out of her eyes. "For all the good it would do us. We're still trapped until Eddie gets us out. So, about that story from earlier?"

"Never took you for the romantic type," Desmond teased.

"I'm not, but it isn't like I have got anything better to do. Besides, you have my interest, at least."

 _The car cruised down the dreary street. It was raining, almost icing up the windshield. Boris kept the wipers going repeatedly as Markovich looked over the reports. As far as the average Russian in the military was concerned, he was a penal officer administrating a gulag deep in Siberia. It was a job most would be content with, brutalizing prisoners and cutting living costs whenever possible. Markovich wasn't most. While he initially chose the assignment out of his desire for solitude, it didn't take long for him to recognize opportunity when it arose._

 _The Soviet Union was at risk of collapsing since the turn of the century, ever since Operation Golgotha. What initially started as a skirmish over resources found in Mongolia eventually spiraled into a battle to decide the primary emissary of the communist cause. The Soviets struck first with their artillery and heavy armor, overwhelming all initial defenses the Chinese could muster. In response, however, subterfuge, sabotage, and assassinations stalled the advances, and the Soviets were incapable of mounting a credible defense against the guerilla strikes as the weeks turned to months. They left Mongolia with their tails between their legs, a humiliating loss on the battlefield not seen since Barbarossa._

 _In the decades that followed, certain provinces began to demonstrate a lack of patriotic fervor. The KGB, juggling duties between spy games with MI-6 and the Chinese Secret Police, often weren't equipped or prepared to deal with these separatist movements. Markovich proposed his solution, offered a demonstration at the risk of his own neck politically, and was granted a trial run. Sure enough, those provinces that had once argued for independence eventually grew silent and compliant. Now, he was fielding offers for more… direct applications of his assets and talents._

 _The car pulled up alongside the building. Romania was a loyal Soviet satellite nation, opting to resist the sway of the fragile European Commonwealth. Though they had lost East Germany and parts of the Baltic, the Warsaw Pact had largely held firm. Soviet influence pervaded throughout the city, the signage still in Cyrillic and the cars still Russian in make and model. Still, every country was permitted its vices. Officially, the building before them was a boarding house. Unofficially, the black dragon graffiti beside the doorframe told a different story._

 _Aleksandr and Boris both left the vehicle. The former kept watch as the other knocked on the doorway. The slit opened as eyes looked over the newcomers._

" _Password?"_

" _The Mountain King sent for us."_

 _The slit closed, several locks were unsealed, and the two were hurried inside. The sullen exterior of the building did everything it could do to undermine the truth of what occurred inside. In here, this joint venture between the Stalingrad Bratva and the Black Dragon Triad was a vice den catering to all manner of the underworld. Here was a place where the desperate mingled with the vicious. The sound of bottles clinking and the smell of opium in the air accompanied the cacophonic noise of the occupants. Staring above on the balcony, a surly looking Russian stared down at the newcomers. Wordlessly, the two officers navigated the crowded floor, avoiding agitated looking hitmen and drunken looking mobsters with their arms draped around younger girls. As they passed through, a fight looked like it was going to break out between two Ruskies over a dice game. One smashed a bottle against the table while the other tried to snap off a chair leg. From the back office, a massive frame peaked out from the doorway, his beady eye staring out all he needed to make his presence known. The situation resolved itself and the two voluntarily dropped the issue._

 _The two climbed the stairway to the balcony. Boris shared a quick handshake with his brother Nikita, a Mafiya captain. Normally, most people would balk at the idea of a KGB agent associating with his criminal brother. After all, weren't the Mafiya and KGB meant to be mortal enemies? It was almost cute how some people still thought that, Aleksandr smiled to himself._

" _Nikita, how are you today?" Aleksandr asked, smiling._

 _Nikita turned towards the lieutenant colonel, his face hardened without a trace of its previous scant good humor. "I was hoping you could explain yourself, comrade."_

 _Markovich blinked. "I'm sorry, I do not follow."_

 _Sighing, Nikita led the two towards a private parlor towards the back. It was located in the center of the building, away from any access to windows and only a single heavy wooden door. Nikita opened the door as Boris kept watch for prying eyes. Inside were five people._

 _A middle-aged man took a whiff of the hookah centered in the middle of the parlor, exhaling as he sunk into the luxury leather chair. He had sharp features, hawk-like as his grey hair seemed to match his eyes. He wore a disheveled military uniform so casually that any proper officer would see fit to scream at him for negligence, were he one to care for such nonsense. This was Zoran Kovalenko, a notorious Serbian mercenary commander. Markovich had made use of his services many times and in many ways, even if he found the man himself particularly loathsome._

 _A striking young woman sat next to him. Persian, from the looks of it. She wore somewhat traditional garb, though it appeared torn in certain places. She gazed off into space, looking away from her "companion" after recognizing some of the newcomers. This was Parisa, third born daughter of the Iranian Shah. Kovalenko had, previously, done work for the royal family and had lately been unsatisfied with both his pay and the reasons for such pay. So he took Parisa as "collateral," until the old man agreed to pay a fair wage for her return._

 _Zoran finished with his pipe and passed it to his fellow guest, simultaneously grabbing Parisa by the arm and forcing her onto his lap. The other woman took the pipe and puffed on it as well. She wore an oriental style silk bathrobe as she sprawled herself across the couch. As she looked up, a toothy smile crept across her face. "Aleksandr!"_

 _Markovich gave a somewhat embarrassed wave in response. "Melanie, uh, hello! I had no idea you were in the area!"_

" _You weren't returning my calls! I had to call in a few favors just to find you!"_

 _Nikita took Aleksandr by the arm as Boris walked over to join an empty chair, picking up another pipe. "What in the fuck were you thinking?!" Nikita hissed as Melanie was distracted by one of Zoran's raunchy jokes._

" _I figured we were fine with written correspondence," Aleksandr shrugged._

" _She needs to leave, NOW!" Nikita hissed. "She's an heiress. She'll bring all the wrong kinds of attention down on us. Not to mention those two krauts have been hovering over the parlor for the past hour!"_

 _The stern-looking men in tan overcoats both glared daggers at Zoran as he kept coming on to Melanie. Their boss waved them off as she allowed the merc commander to tickle her chin. Boris coughed up some vapor as he placed the pipe back in the bowl._

" _Right, I'll just talk to her myself," Aleksandr relented. He walked up to Melanie and tapped her on the shoulder. "Can we talk privately?"_

 _Accepting the request, Melanie walked with him "So, this is the company you'd rather keep than mine?"_

" _It isn't like that. I enjoy talking with you, and I want to keep discussing our research more than anything. But I have obligations I must keep."_

" _And what of myself?" Melanie asked. "Am I not one of those priority obligations?"_

" _You're a fascinating woman," Aleksandr admitted. "But I have other matters to occupy my attention."_

" _Matters?" Melanie asked, coyly. "Like doing favors for Mafiya funding? Like hiring that delightful man groping his hostage to train your little freelance battalion?"_

 _Aleksandr backed her into a corner. "What do you want of me?" he hissed._

" _I am able and willing to fund your research, Aleks," Melanie pressed. "I believe that if we work side by side, we can change the world."_

" _I would love to work with you, Mel," Aleksandr pleaded. "But some of the things I'm doing are… unconventional."_

"… _Amoral," Melanie corrected._

"… _Perhaps that would be a better descriptor," he admitted._

" _I can get you cleaner work, Aleks," Melanie insisted. "If you say the word, I can put in a good word for some of my friends and we can…"_

" _No," Markovich snapped. "Absolutely not."_

" _Why not?" Melanie asked. "Too much of a patriot?"_

" _Because I'm not ashamed of anything I do," Markovich's voice began to darken._

" _Yet you refuse collaboration with me. Your equal?" Melanie complained._

" _Equal?" Markovich snorted. "You have no idea what it is I am capable of."_

 _Melanie leaned in closer until her lips almost touched his ear. "…I can have any of these men killed, Aleksandr. My guards aren't just there to stand around and look scary. They're Riyadh veterans."_

" _And Zoran served in Tehran," Aleksandr countered. "Nikita has a body count that extends from Paris to Seoul. Boris has survived twenty attempts on his life in the past five years, and those were just the ones from inside his own government. You are in a den with wolves, Melanie. Tread wisely."_

 _Melanie let the words sink in. Quietly, she took her seat on the couch between the KGB agent and the soldier-for-hire, who was busy tearing his hostage's sleeve from her body as she desperately pleaded for him to stop. Melanie noticed the faint traces of tears in her eyes. She had done some reading about Commander Zoran before arriving, a result of twisting Desmond's arm enough for him to call in favors. His was a history of brutality, putting villages to the torch as he sold off the survivors to the black market. Normally, he would have been tried and hung years ago, but by keeping his activities centered around the chaotic and war-torn Middle East and Central Asia, he was able to evade enough public scrutiny. Even royalty didn't appear safe. Kidnapping and degrading the daughter of the Shah was just another way he could flaunt his ability to rise above justice._

"… _Commander Kovalenko, was it?" Melanie asked._

" _Hmh?" he turned, breaking off from forcefully kissing Parisa down her neck._

" _How much is that girl worth to you?" Melanie asked._

" _Her? Oh, I don't know. The boys and I quite like having her around," he said as he spun her around to face Melanie. "She's good for morale. A tasty little treat as reward for a job well done. She's a good little girl. Doesn't fight or scream, at least not anymore," he laughed. Parisa's face burned from the humiliation as Melanie, in turn, eyed her up and down._

" _I can see that," Melanie replied. "So cash is out of the question?"_

 _Zoran thought for a bit. "I mean, I'm not ruling anything out. But I don't think it would be a good idea to just let her go just yet. You don't want her out there all alone, saying all kinds of things that no one will ever believe? I'd feel too responsible."_

" _Oh, I assure you that under my care, you would have nothing to worry about," Melanie insisted. "But instead of cash, how about… a friendly wager?"_

" _What do you have in mind?" Zoran began, interested._

" _First, the terms. If I win, I gain further custody of your lovely companion. If I lose, though…"_

 _She looked up to her guards. She spoke in German. For the first time all day, they spoke back, prompting an even harsher reply from their boss. Slowly and reluctantly, they followed their directives and marched from the parlor. Nikita locked the door behind them, eyes on the two gamblers._

"… _If you win, that is…" she continued as she undid her belt, exposing the thin line of skin from her neck to her navel. "…You will have me all to yourself for the rest of the night until sun-up. You will be free to do whatever you want with me, short of anything particularly morbid."_

 _Zoran's mind was ablaze with the fantasy of having a princess and an heiress all to himself. The prospect of blackmailing one of the richest women in the continent for later was enticing as well. And, of course, he would be taking that dweeb Markovich's woman right from under his oversized nose. All three reasons to follow through, no matter what._

" _You have my attention," Zoran consented. "What is the nature of this wager?"_

" _First person to make the other bleed wins," Melanie stated._

 _Zoran, once his mind processed the sentence, immediately shoved off Parisa and went for his knife. Melanie, however, pressed her middle and ring finger into the bottom of her palm, extending the razor-thin blade from her wrist. Her family had insisted on having some kind of personal deterrent in the event that her security was unavailable. A rare demonstration of wisdom on their part, Melanie thought as she managed to slice the side of Zoran's cheek._

" _Well, would you look at that," Melanie assessed. "I wiUGH!" she was interrupted by the fist that sent her sprawling through the hookah table. The enraged Serb mounted her, wrapping his hands around her neck. "You think you're smart, you cheeky little bitch? I've never taken so much as lip from a woman, and you go and give me a fucking wound?! Who do you think you are, you spoiled little…"_

 _A man tackled into him, bowling him off Melanie as she sputtered for breath. Zoran immediately began hammering into the assailant with everything he had. Fists, elbows, knees, and yet that little twerp refused to so much as budge an inch. The brothers began screaming at the two to stop fighting as Parisa began checking on Melanie. Then the heavy wooden door burst inwards._

 _The man was at least a hair short of seven feet tall. He wore silk trousers and a simple tunic. He was completely bald, showcasing the dragon tattoos on the sides of his head. And he was built like a brick outhouse._

 _With two strides, he separated the brawling men. He forced the Serb against the wall and the Russian, still on his feet though dazed and stumbling from the beating, towards the seat. He glowered at all the room's occupants. "…What is the meaning of this?" he asked in heavily Chinese accented Russian._

 _Everyone in the room corroborated on the same story; Zoran had been the aggressor, having lost the agreed upon wager fairly. Zoran protested, calling the women bitches, the Russians cocksucking errand boys and eventually the nephew of the establishment owner, the man pinning him to the wall, an overgrown chink. This earned him a disorienting head butt, awakening just in time to see a card table rising up to meet him._

 _Crashing through, he looked up at the balcony, the giant-of-a-man glaring down at him. "Zoran Kovalenko, you are banned from this establishment for life."_

 _Zoran pulled himself up, tried to muster up whatever dignity he had left, and turned towards the door._

" _Hey, Zoran!"_

 _He turned back to see Melanie joining the man at his side. She spat a glob onto the railing. "You hit like a sorority girl!"_

 _She turned back to the broken parlor, seeing the brothers steadying Markovich as he coughed up some bloody ichor. They rested him on the couch. He glanced up at Melanie as she reentered the room. "So, you're welcome, anyway."_

 _Markovich glared up at her. "That man was a vital part of our military efforts. Distasteful as he was, you had no right to instigate something like that."_

" _Vital? Him?" Melanie asked, skeptically. "He flew off the handle over a little shaving cut like that? He wasn't reliable and you know it. A rabid horny Doberman could get you the same results."_

" _That wasn't your call to make, Rictoberg," Markovich hissed._

"… _What if I can offer a replacement?" she offered. "Superior, disciplined, and exceptional? Surely, you can't say no?"_

" _We will… might discuss something like that later," Boris growled. "Right now, I think you should go."_

 _Melanie sniffed as she picked up the Persian woman from the ground. As they left the parlor for the last time, the massive man blocked their path._

" _Leave them be, Tseng," Nikita called out. "They were just leaving."_

 _The man, instead, leaned down to whisper in Melanie's ear. "You are banned as well."_

" _I don't give a shit. This place sucks anyway," Melanie whispered back as she pushed through._

 _Walking out to her limo, Melanie felt slightly colder than before she arrived. Looking down, she saw her robe was still open. Wrapping herself tightly, she entered her vehicle, almost closing the door until she remembered she picked up a new passenger. Moving aside, she allowed the Persian to enter alongside her._

" _Well, that could have gone a lot smoother," she said as she motioned for the driver to take her back to the hotel. She reached into the ice cooler, pulling out something expensive. "You have a preference, miss…?"_

"… _I don't drink," the girl muttered. "…My name is Parisa."_

 _Filling her own glass, Melanie reached deeper into the cooler, pulling out a beverage shaped like a rocket. "Nuka-Cola, ever had one?"_

 _Parisa shook her head. "It's actually not bad. I always pick up a case or thirty whenever I'm on holiday in America," she offered as she twisted off the cap._

 _Parisa eyed the bubbling liquid suspiciously, taking a tentative sip. The bubbles seemed to surprise her for a little, but eventually, she began gulping the whole beverage down._

" _See, perfectly harmless," Melanie replied as she looked out the window. Fifteen seconds later, she heard the choking sobs beside her as Parisa wrapped her arms around Melanie's torso. Absentmindedly, Melanie began stroking the woman's hair as she got tears and snot on her expensive robe. She pondered whether or not to hand her over to some charity shelter. Or maybe she could sell the story to some hack screenwriter. One thing was for sure, with that coup two months ago, the Shah wasn't in any position to do much of anything anymore._

" _Thank you," Parisa sniffed._

" _Mh-hmm," Melanie replied as she started patting her shoulder. Parisa began rambling on about her treatment and how she lost track of when she was just having nightmares and how her family would never want her back anymore and how Melanie was an angel sent from the Almighty and she eventually stopped paying attention after that last bit._

 _She had to admit, though, it was nice to have someone singing her praises as emphatically as Parisa did. With the way she was going on, it sounded like she owed her life to her rescuer. Which, to be perfectly honest, she did. She figured she could find some room in her chateau for her to stay until she figured out a proper place to ditch her. Technically, she could just throw her out onto the street right now, but the Rictobergs had a reputation to uphold._

 _Besides, she had more important matters to attend to. Markovich had seen her grit and tenacity, as well as quite a bit of her skin, and yet he remained unmoved. It infuriated her, she was a woman who was used to getting whatever she wanted. She wanted Markovich, a man with a level of genius on par with House and Braun. So, he fancied himself ruthless? Melanie would commit, then, to demonstrating just how ruthless she could be…_

Desmond quickly put out his cigarette, put the butt in his pocket, and hastily rebound his hands behind his back before the raider came into the tent. "Ghoul first."

He grabbed Desmond by the arm and hauled him to his feet, dragging him from the tent. Outside were the Ximenez gang standing in front of a pile of weapons, alcohol, and bags of caps. The raider cut Desmond's binds as he neared Eduardo.

"Appreciate you coming so far out for me," Desmond said.

"I came for my sister."

"I figured. I was mostly talking to her," Desmond reiterated, pointing to Vana. Taking his place beside her, he whispered into her ear. "I take it you had a lot more fun last night than I did."

Vana didn't respond, focusing on scanning the camp. It was ragtag, to put it mildly. Mostly tents and trailers, a large bonfire in the middle. Sybil seemed to indicate that this was a small portion of a much larger group. Speak of the devil, Sybil was busy chatting with Eduardo.

"I'm just so embarrassed, Eduardo, I didn't mean for it to come down like this."

"I'm just not in the mood, Sybil," Eddie replied pointedly. "You crossed a line. We don't fuck with family."

"You don't understand," Sybil pleaded. "I've been losing scouts ever since I set up camp here. I ran into those two right where I lost contact with my last scouting group. I was just trying to get to the bottom of what's been happening."

"Well, I hope the ransom makes things easier. My sister, please," Eddie seethed.

Sybil sighed, motioning for the last hostage. Ariel was dragged out, finally, cursing up a storm. "Hija de pendejo! Puta! Estupida perros!" Sybil cut her binds. Ariel was about to take a swing at her when her brother's arms wrapped tightly around her.

"I was so worried," he confessed, shaking.

"Let me go," Ariel demanded, though still returning the hug.

Eddie looked up. "Our business here is done."

"…Blessed day to you all! All of you rejoice! Praise be to the Padre, praise be!" A voice suddenly drew closer.

A man in tattered priest vestments slowly approached the camp, dragging behind him a burlap sack. Desmond cocked his nonexistent eyebrow while Vana stared in confusion. Several of the raiders began laughing in disbelief while members of the Ximenez gang talked amongst themselves about just how weird this day was. It was then that Desmond noticed that Sybil was staring at the man without an ounce of humor on her face. She didn't seem confused or surprised at all. If anything, she seemed livid.

That was when he noticed Eddie. He was holding on to his sister, tighter than even before. He stared at the man as he approached, his eyes widened and his face growing paler. Eddie seemed shocked by the recent development. No, more than that. Two-barrel Eddie Ximenez was afraid.

The priest stopped right at the border. He glanced at everyone, a kindly smile on his face. "Friends and brothers! I hope you are all well this day! I bring with you the greatest of tidings!"

He reached for the bag, opening it. "You have all been chosen to ascend upon the morrow. Even as we speak, my beloved Padre is on his way to bestow upon us all his blessings! Just as he has done so with these!"

He dropped the bag, and severed head after severed head came tumbling from the burlap. Most of the camp-goers howled in shock and disgust. Sybil looked like she was going to scream. Eddie pushed Ariel behind him as he fished out his shotgun.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" he screamed.

"I shall," the man replied with tears in his eyes. Tears of joy. "We shall all escape the Hell that is this wretched world. That is the gift of the Iglesia." The priest took out a knife. "I have delivered my message. I have succeeded in my task. There is no greater reward for accomplishing such a mission. Padre Hex! Reward these as I shall be!" he called out before plunging the dagger into his throat. He locked eyes with them all as he pulled the knife across, leaving behind a bloody gash as the life left him. He fell to his knees, dying before his face hit the ground.

"…What the fuck was that?" Vana asked.

"…The Iglesia de la Santa Sangre," Eddie muttered. "I thought they were still down south."

"New guys here. Could you maybe fill us in?" Desmond asked.

"A death cult. THE death cult," Sybil explained. "Their mission statement is to finish what the bombs were supposed to do. The extermination of all human life."

"…You're joking, right?" Desmond asked. "You can't be serious?"

"They are," Eddie muttered. "They're the most dangerous cult in Mexico. No one who has gone up against the Padre has ever survived. And that guy? He just marked us for death. He just marked us ALL for death!"


	9. Krieg ist Gott

Chapter 9: Krieg ist Gott

The mood was grim around the camp. Raider and outlaw, once nearly pitted against the other, now found themselves allied against a common and oncoming threat. Desmond rarely felt like more of a new guy then he did right now. What little he had gathered was that "El Hijo de Horrigan" was on his way right now. Sybil and Eddie both agreed that in such an event, the odds were better to stick together.

"You able to glean anything?" Desmond asked Vana when they were alone.

"Death cults make poor pillow talk," Vana admitted. "Most I got from him was that the Ximenez gang generally avoids Mexico on principle, the same reasons most other groups in the area do. Place is filled with raiders and cannibals."

"Same old shit, then?" Desmond scoffed.

"And from what I've gathered, even _those_ people stay the hell away from this "Iglesia," Vana continued. "You heard Sybil. Apparently, they're all about finishing what the bombs started."

"An extinction fetish," Desmond muttered. "Sounds quaint."

"If they scare Eddie, then they must be some kind of dangerous," Vana admitted.

"Too dangerous to risk cutting and running?" Desmond asked, rhetorically.

"Knowing what and where our enemy is going to be is too valuable. Better we stick with the group than risk getting caught off guard and ambushed… again," she added, coyly.

"Why, aren't you growing into quite the wiseass," Desmond snorted.

"So, I've been thinking over all the groups you've been telling me about in Europe," Vana began. "And so far none of them come off as particularly impressive if I'm just being honest."

"No," Desmond admitted. "Everyone is dangerous in their own way, but so far none of them really hold much of a candle to any seriously organized group over here. This NCR, for example, or a fully recognized and self-sustaining Brotherhood chapter could reasonably easily devastate the Marquis or the Ossani Mafia if they happened to, say, find themselves parked next to each other for one reason or another. Then again, maybe I'm not being fair? The NCR is something of a postwar superpower, isn't it? I've been telling you everything notable about the most influential groups that have been popping up since last I left, but I guess now it's time to save the "best" for last…"

 _Ah, Deutschland. The last two centuries haven't exactly gone out of their way to be kind to it, and yet they still remained the European force to be reckoned with after everything. Economic strife, cultural upheaval, even cutting the country in half and still, Germany managed to find its way at the very top of the EC. Even after everything went to shit, Germany still found itself at the top of the shit pile, with its industry relatively intact and its economy damaged yet still functional. All because they made out like bandits during the Final Crusade. Damn near literally._

 _History lesson once again. Europe is damn near out of oil, renewables aren't making up the deficit, and the Middle East is pretty much asking for it. The EC creates a united military force to "liberate" the shit out of the Middle East. And it just so happened that one out of every three soldiers they sent over spoke German. Just goes to show you that no one cares how big your army gets as long as it isn't pointed towards them, and it only took them two world wars to figure it out._

 _A single army engaging one of the most conflict-hardened territories on the planet can and should scare any strategist, so it was good fortune that a dashingly handsome agent and some friends of his spent the previous half-decade steadily undermining various regimes and sabotaging any attempt at a coordinated alliance. The conventional battles barely lasted a year._

 _Of course, you know that things aren't that simple. With occupation comes insurgency, and the Final Crusade realized that taking doesn't mean holding. That, and our enemies managed to destroy the oil almost faster then we could extract it. So the Final Crusade came back with little to show for it, and our leaders figured that a united Europe wasn't all it was cracked up to be. So we hoarded our resources, closed a bunch of borders, and ruined our economies with the goal of making sure the others crashed before ours did._

 _Of course, Germany found itself with quite a few veterans that they couldn't pay for. With job prospects bleak and few other marketable skills in an overly competitive market, quite a few of them created private military companies to help their brothers-in-arms pay their bills. Of course, as the economies crumbled, nations began privatizing government functions, including defense. You can imagine how brilliant an idea this was._

 _One of the biggest companies to come out on top of the others was the Landsknecht Truppa Firma, comprising mostly of German, Austrian, and Swiss mercenaries. They were just about the most sought after private army on the continent, receiving offers from everything from corporations to wannabe military despots. Over time, however, it began looking out for its own interests over its clients, especially after its majority of shares had been purchased by the Rictoberg Foundation, an organization with its tentacles in damn near every nook and cranny on the continent._

 _After that point, they kept themselves largely based around Bern, Switzerland. Say what you would about them, but the Swiss weren't stupid. The worst was over the horizon, and Switzerland had been undertaking the most ambitious doomsday prepping since the end of the Second World War. A nation connected by tunnels underground. Everything Vault-Tec promised, only for real and with fewer strings attached. After all, can you guess the organization responsible for funding a significant chunk of the digging? Yeah, don't even pretend to be surprised._

 _So, when the bombs came, a woman named Melanie Rictoberg found herself safe and sound underneath a burning continent with everything she could ask for and want. Her science projects, her research findings, and a private army dedicated to her whims. When they returned to the surface, they annihilated seven different raider and scavenger gangs in the first month. So much so that the message was sent; don't come to the Swiss Oasis._

 _Which brings us to today. The surface presence of this army no longer goes by its corporate name, but by its new title; The Teutonic Reich. Now, if you wanted an organization to go round for round with the Brotherhood of Steel at the height of its power, you know, before the various schisms and leadership disputes, the Teutonic Reich would be my first pick._

 _See, the Teutonic Reich has, by far, lost the least since the bombs, and in some aspects gained some advantages you'd be hard-pressed to take from them. Let's just say their relationship with Rictoberg was beneficial in more than a few ways. They remain the best armed, best armored, best led, best trained and most organized fighting force in Europe. Really, the only thing holding them back is their numbers. Fortunately._

 _Yeah, they don't come with the most upstanding reputation on the surface. They like taxing non-hostile communities with fervor, and not always for money. Indeed, money is something the troops tend to no longer care about. It's about establishing and reinforcing the notions of superiority that they have been brought up to believe. This is by design, you understand?_

 _See, they weren't just sitting on their hands eating rations underground. Those experiments Rictoberg was working on were ultimately directed towards one purpose; to establish herself as the ultimate sovereignty of the continent and of humanity. Sounds insane right? It always does until you can start backing it up. Melanie wasn't just training and arming the best army in Europe. She was breeding them, too. Genetic alteration and splicing were just hobbies for her until she had enough time on her hands. Super mutants? A flawed prototype compared to what Melanie created. While retaining their human forms, their physical and mental attributes skyrocket. So, instead of languishing around and postulating about any sort of "master race," the madwoman up and created one._

 _Same old song and dance, right? An opportunity for the rest of Europe to band together, unite under one banner, and strike down the underground tyrant and her legion of vat-grown human monstrosities? Tempting, love. Real tempting. Except for one thing. The Grave Tempest. The people of Europe have learned to tolerate the Teutonic Reich once they came to understand the new reality to the east. That the Reich is the bulwark keeping much bigger monsters at bay. And that isn't me trying to be poetic…_

* * *

 _The carrier shook as it hit a bump in the terrain. The driver gazed out of the narrow slit in front of him, trying to parse the path before him through the swirling maelstrom of debris. Beside him, his navigator watched the instruments on the console as he gleaned a map, slowly tracking their estimated progress. In the back, a platoon of a dozen armored soldiers kept alert underneath their armored canopy. Extraction missions were the worst. And this one was taking them right into the Grave Tempest._

" _So, Sarge, where exactly was the beacon located?" A Panzerwolf asked as he checked off his equipment._

" _Reports indicate an old apartment complex located near an abandoned reactor." Sergeant Wolfgang explained. "Plan is to fan out, clear the apartment and surrounding area, and rendezvous at the reactor for further orders."_

" _I missed being stationed at the Tannenberg for this?" another soldier complained. "Bailing out some mutants and a priest?"_

" _Orders came from the top. You want to complain, you know where to go," Wolfgang replied._

" _At least tell me that French hot-ass is going to be there?" the soldier asked, eagerly._

" _Who knows? Maybe the monsters haven't devoured her entirely," another joked._

 _The vehicle came to a halt. The back hatch unlocked and flung itself open. The Panzerwolves expertly filed out, weapons trained in front of them as they scanned over the area. The weather, as it had been the last few decades, was abysmal. A swirling mess of wind and radiation. Already, the Geiger counters were going insane, the fully armored troops as protected from the radiation as they were from the cold. An ominous looking smokestack made its outline in the distance. Before that, however, was the box-shaped building that Sergeant Wolfgang was tasked with clearing. As the other squads maintained a perimeter, he chose his team._

" _Hans, Goldstein, Buchner, on me."_

 _The four split off from the two other groups as they breached the building. As they entered, and the howling wind outside began to dull, the soldiers activated their helmet lights. As they scanned the lobby, it became clearly apparent that someone had set up camp in the building earlier. Evidence of kindling and empty ration packs were littered across the floor._

" _Found them already?" Hans asked._

" _Or another scavenging team. Check the upstairs. Find that beacon," Wolfgang ordered._

 _Sticking together, the team began clearing the building, kicking down doors as they swept through the apartments. The dilapidated building had been inhabited sporadically in the recent century, evidence of campsites from years prior littering nearly every intact apartment. Most likely from some of the local Slavic prospector gangs. For their sake, it would be best if they just kept their heads down as the surly Panzerwolves stalked down the corridors._

" _Hold. Sergeant, take a look at this," Hans pointed to the corner of a wall. There was some fungal growth emerging from the floor above, it seemed. "Looks like what I think it is?" he asked._

" _Looks like it," Wolfgang admitted. "Goldstein, up front. You see one of those bastards, light them up."_

 _Goldstein eagerly chuckled as he brought up his flamethrower. Covering his flanks and rear, the four human juggernauts cautiously approached the stairwell that wound itself around the lift. Buchner tapped into the receiver in his helmet. "Sounds like the beacon is on the next floor."_

 _As they traipsed on the stairway, the creaks echoed throughout the building. The faint sounds of venomous squabbling could be heard further up. Upon reaching the last floor, the squad rounded the corner to see a figure crouching in the middle of the hallway. The outline betrayed a meter and a half tall fetus-like creature, burying into a corpse as luminescent mushrooms hung off the body. As the light shown on the beast, it slowly turned towards the interlopers, meat staining its undersized fangs as its massive black eyes dilated to the light._

 _Goldstein's finger itched on his flamethrower as the creature reared back its head and let out a piercing screech. Its pack responded in kind, flooding out from the apartments as they carried various weapons ranging from pipes to handguns. Goldstein let out a stream of flame, cooking parts of the first wave alive as Wolfgang brushed past him, drawing his serrated sword. The hallway too narrow to swing it around wildly, Wolfgang gripped it by the middle, skewering attackers with the tip as he used the pommel to bludgeon. When a creature latched onto a shoulder, Hans and Buchner would expertly snipe off the beast with honed accuracy._

 _Upon completion, the soldiers pressed on, finally locating the botchling nest. It was a damp and moist clutch of half-formed creatures, drawing on and feeding off the fungus growing from the masses of corpses stacked together. Before torching the sight, Wolfgang made a point to examine each corpse in an attempt to verify any identities._

" _They're just Slavs," he concluded as he picked up the radio beacon. "Looks like Desmond was smart enough to escape before the botchlings swarmed him. No doubt they were looking for a more secure position before we arrived."_

 _He looked out the window to the power plant. He had a suspicion as to where they were holed up. The plant was defensible and likely abandoned. No corpses for the botchlings to infect and feed on. Hopefully, Melanie's errand boys (and girl) were alive and well._

" _Goldstein, torch it," he spat as the clutch of scarcely formed semi-living flesh was boiled. They could hear the faint screaming as the creatures began to pop. Botchlings were one of the reasons the Grave Tempest was treated with the utmost prejudice. Small, weak, and of low cunning, they worked in packs or sometimes hordes to compensate for their weaknesses. They were also poisonous, a bite from them often infecting their prey with radiation sickness, often manifesting as a fungal growth, which was their primary food source. The best way to deal with their population was at the root, as if they fed enough, their numbers would skyrocket._

 _Wolfgang and his troops had just left the apartment, its top floor now engulfed in flames, then the unmistakable staccato rhythms of heavy machine gun fire came to their ears. They were joined in by another sound, this one unfamiliar. It sounded like laser fire, rapid, accompanied by slower, heavier blasts._

" _Looks like the other squads made contact. Should we assist?" Hans asked._

" _Negative. We have our mission. Locate, extract, then assist as needed. Besides, if they are unfit to handle some ancient Ruskie shock troops, then they are unfit for the title of Panzerwolf," Wolfgang explained. The squad nodded in agreement, and together they approached the abandoned reactor, looking to finish the mission before something dangerous found them._

"…I don't remember inviting you," Desmond suddenly stopped as the new guest made herself comfortable.

"I'm terribly sorry," Sybil bowed her head. "I just find your storytelling fascinating. It feels like I'm there. I hope people tell you how much they appreciate your craft."

"Normally I just tell these stories to Vana," Desmond shrugged. "And normally she keeps her opinions to herself."

"Now, that's just shameful," Sybil gasped. "How can you listen so long to a story and not have an opinion?"

"What of it?" Vana asked.

"I'm just saying, a little feedback is warranted," Sybil explained. "It's the bare minimum expression of gratuity."

"Easy, now," Desmond replied. "The information is payment for her continued assistance."

"And furthermore, you weren't invited," Vana sniffed.

"Is that so? Well, I apologize for my intrusion Mr. Lockheart, and to you as well Ms. Burke."

Vana stared at the woman. "…What did you call me?"

Sybil smiled. "Vanessa Burke, age 28. Born in the ruins of Baltimore. Raised by your uncle, a "fixer" for a man named Tenpenny until his untimely demise at the hands of a ghoul uprising. Your uncle, on the other hand, was killed in a dispute with a do-gooder by the name of Brendan Conroy. That name comes up a lot in your head, doesn't it? I hear it over and over again. It's the first thing you wake up to and the last thing you see before you sleep. You are just obsessed with this man, aren't you?"

Vana pulled out her pistol and placed it under Sybil's chin. "…Keep going. I dare you."

"Aren't you satisfied by your revenge?" Sybil asked. "You've already wounded the man, what more is there to take?"

"…What are you talking about?" Vana asked.

"…Need a reminder?" Sybil asked.

 _The broken bridge provided the best possible viewpoint. The town had long since been purged of human life, its inhabitants and protectors both cut down by the super mutant horde that was close to its end. The sniper found the perfect position at the end of the bridge, overseeing the river. A few hours later, the sounds of mutant howls and weapon blasts could reach their ears._

 _Across the river, Lyons' Pride had managed to intercept and corner the bulk of the Shepherd's Horde. After committing numerous atrocities, Acting Elder Sarah Lyons was about to finish the last remnant of the Brotherhood's remaining adversaries. The Enclave was extinct, Talon Company was disbanded, the various raiders and slavers had been hunted down or driven into hiding, and the last remaining survivors of the Vault 87 mutants who had remained behind in the Capital Wasteland were about to be finished off once and for all._

 _The mighty overlord swung its hammer directly at her face, striking her in the helmet. As the hud began to sizzle, Sarah emptied her laser rifle into Shepherd's gut, stunning him as she pried off her helmet. Around her, Lyons' Pride were performing admirably. They fought like warriors, even the initiates battling with veteran commitment. Young Arthur Maxson, young as he was, engaged his enemies with a radical fervor Sarah couldn't help but be proud of. She was almost happy Brendan and his gang weren't here. The fight would've probably ended too early._

 _The bullet struck her in the throat. Before she even had time to register the fatal wound, Shepherd had slammed his sledgehammer into the side of her armor. As she fell limply to the ground, Shepherd slammed his foot onto the broken carcass, howling in victory as the morale of the Brotherhood plummeted. Maxson took it upon himself to sound the retreat._

 _The sniper watched as the super mutants swarmed around the corpse, smashing and breaking the armor as they felt beside themselves with rage and triumph. The body would become so mangled that no one would pay a second thought to the bullet wound. Another tragic casualty of the super mutant infestation. Totally not a contract killing._

 _The Brotherhood Outcasts, so long after their exile by Owen Lyons, had felt the time would soon come to rejoin their naïve brothers. The only obstacle preventing that was Sarah Lyons, taking up the leadership mantle after her father passed, saying that the Outcasts would be allowed to rejoin "over her dead body." Hey, her terms._

 _Vana began disassembling her rifle, checking over it for anything a zealous scribe could use to trace it back to the dealer she lifted it from. She'd plant some evidence on a drifter, whether they bought the frame up or not wasn't her concern, as she'd leave the DC Wastes long before then. Before leaving the bridge, she took one last look at the town of Megaton on the horizon. She wanted nothing more then to take the last remnants of Talon Company and trick them into a suicide attack against the town if it would mean giving her the opportunity to kill Conroy once and for all._

 _But that wasn't what uncle would have wanted. That wasn't what a fixer was meant to do, or at least how a fixer would do it. She had to find someone powerful, larger than life. A huge figure who could cast a long shadow for her to hide in. There, she could thrive and do the work she was meant to do. Then, and only after acquiring that which she needed, she would find that idealistic cretin and look into his eyes as he bled out._

* * *

Brother Santiago made his way past his brothers, bowing in respect as they parted. His fellow acolyte, on the verge of radiation poisoning and with merely days remaining, had performed his task admirably. The sermon had been delivered. Death was coming. May all rejoice.

The hastily made camp had housed his fellow holy warriors. The trek from Juarez had been an arduous one, yet fulfilling at the same time. They had crossed the path of many communities on their way to the west. They left behind only lessons. The ghoul sentries allowed him to pass. He nodded with respect. Where once they had been feral beasts, the Padre had, for lack of a better term, domesticated them into service. They had no fear or hesitance, following simple commands to the letter. Santiago was very proud of them, even envying their simple commitment to the Padre and his acolytes.

In the inner sanctum, his fellow disciples were arming themselves, counting off their ammunition and praying for the souls of those they were about to lead to salvation. Their line of work was hard to understand, many even calling their actions barbaric. It was understandable until one looked at the state of God's Creation. Human life only begat more suffering. It was their duty to eliminate the rot, as Cortez did with the Aztecs, and as the Master and Horrigan had been destined to do with California.

A large carcass of a lizard was dragged into the center of the camp. A large man, stunted by super mutant standards, but only just, walked around his prize. He wore a brown leather mask, leaving only his eyes, nose, and chin exposed. He also wore a custom leather jacket with the words, "El Hijo de Horrigan" on the back, in addition to his gloves and boots. All of it was leather. Deathclaw leather.

"Another successful hunt," Santiago greeted, smiling.

The Padre turned to see his disciple. "…A thrilling hunt. There are few things more gratifying than valiant prey. Brother Hector has not returned with you, I see. Blessed may his soul rest."

"The raiders have been joined by several outlaws," Santiago relayed.

"Good. More lost sheep. We must take it upon ourselves to free them from their suffering. When they all cross over, they will understand. Until then, we strike at nightfall." As he said this, the Padre plunged a blade into the chest of the Deathclaw. With practiced precision, he carved out his desired organ, the heart. Ripping it from its chest, Padre Hex tore into it, the blood dribbling down his chin as he devoured the only thing that could sate him.

Overseeing all of this was a corpse. It had fallen into Padre Hex's hands decades ago, an oddity from a band of travelers making their way across the country. A once legendary figure, Hex took it upon himself to test himself, see if he was worthy of his legacy of blood. He succeeded, and from that day forward, he tied the corpse of his inspiration to a severed telephone pole. The skeleton was the size of a super mutant, yet was covered in armor. His facemask had once inspired fear and trepidation in those who opposed him, but only Hex understood the true lesson. Horrigan was the savior of this damned earth, and it was the duty of his "son" to fulfill his calling.


	10. Sybil's Stories

Chapter 10: Sybil's Stories

Eddie counted his shells as the rest of his gang prepared themselves for the attack. Tried as he might, he found it difficult to hide his shaking hands. The Ximenez siblings had never been strangers to violence. His career started when he planted one between the eyes of an unscrupulous Brahmin baron, causing him to take his little sister east to escape prosecution in the NCR. During their first trek, Vegas was still somewhat lawless, and the journey through Arizona and New Mexico was dangerous enough with the ascending Legion. Still, no one ever said Eddie couldn't figure out which battles he could or could not win. Until now.

Eddie had fought his way through Fort Wrath, easily regarded as the most hostile territory in the Texas Wastes, to end the life of a Raider Lord who had once suggested he exchange his sister to him for a position as a lieutenant in his gang. Killing him sent shockwaves throughout the raider gangs, making a name for Eddie while putting a target on his back. Gathering like-minded individuals, he forced himself and his little sister to become warriors to be reckoned with. Between them, they had killed two other Raider Lords and forced several rival gangs to disintegrate. If he ever so desired, Eddie was well-positioned to take the title of Raider Lord himself, but he cared more about roaming freely than guarding the borders of turf.

Eddie was not an amateur. Eddie knew how to win fights. Eddie had killed people who were bigger, stronger, crueler, faster, wiser, younger, hungrier, or even more desperate than he was. Padre Hex, on the other hand, didn't seem motivated by a desire to prove himself or raise his standing or even take what others had. Padre Hex killed out of some twisted sense of obligation, not even out of cruelty. Violence to Hex was more than a means to an end as it was for the rest of the wasteland. It was a process to be followed with religious fervor. Eddie knew of a few folks, friends and mentors, who had gone south for one reason or another. He never saw any of them again. Secretly, a part of Eddie wondered if someone like Hex was capable of being killed.

"Hey," Ariel spoke up as she sat down beside Eddie, disassembling a submachine gun for maintenance. Eddie looked over his sister. She was ten years his junior, though equally as lethal. Most people looked at this small and pretty young woman and saw someone in over her head. They didn't realize she was a capable survivalist in her own right and one of the fastest draws in the Ximenez gang, who themselves were nearly legendary in their ability to outgun anyone else. Often she attempted, usually unsuccessfully, to prevent her older brother from sticking his nose into others business.

"…You doing OK?" Eddie asked.

"For someone who just got kidnapped and is about to fight for her life, I'm feeling pretty fine," Ariel answered.

"…I mean," Eddie whispered, "between you and your two bodyguards, you guys have the best chance at slipping out and saving yourselves," he said, earnestly.

"Well, what about you?" Ariel asked.

"I'm going to see if I can make the good Padre bleed and become the king of Mexico," Eddie grinned. "That's how it works, right?"

Ariel rolled her eyes. "If you're going to hog all the glory and whatever bounty that guy has for yourself, forget it. We work and we split, same as always."

"Right," Eddie laughed. "…Same as always."

"…I don't think I've ever heard of Padre Hex having a bounty," Ariel admitted.

"…He doesn't have one," Eddie answered. "No one would be crazy enough to collect it, let alone post one."

"…You don't think we can win?" Ariel asked.

"…It's going to be a tough fight," Eddie admitted.

"Well, we can always take a peek into the future, if you are so willing," Sybil interjected.

"Go straight to hell," Ariel replied, not even looking up.

Eddie looked at the self-styled mystic. Sybil had gained a habit of playing up flair for the dramatic effect, but her intuition or whatever she claimed to have tended to speak for itself. She was always a monster at poker, in any event.

"What's in it for you?" Eddie asked, reluctant.

"Peace of mind. If any of you are to survive, then that only bodes well for me. The Master has already guaranteed my survival, and he has never led me astray. Still, I do so worry about the rest of you," Sybil pleaded, relatively sincerely.

"…I'm not sure I trust your visions all that much. How do I know you aren't for a little creative editing," Eddie narrowed his eyes.

"Just a little peek to see what the future holds," Sybil replied. "Cross my heart."

"You still have one of those?" Ariel muttered.

Sybil smiled. "…Tell you what. I go for a little precognitive dive. I alone will see what the future holds. If it's something positive, I'll keep it a surprise. Fair?"

Eddie crossed his arms. "Can't you already see whatever is going to happen?"

"I can discover A future, not THE future," Sybil explained. "I can look into yours or sometimes mine, but I can't exactly predict the weather unless it involves you getting soaked."

"Fine, whatever," Ariel relented as she turned to face Sybil. "…If it'll shut you up, take a look."

Sybil's fingers wrapped around Ariel's temple, gently massaging the woman until she entered a lull. As Ariel's eyes rolled up into her head, Sybil closed hers and dived the currents of time. She was curious to see how Eddie's beloved little sister would die and was tempted to skip the very end to witness the occasion herself. However, something else called her attention, and as it often did, curiosity got the better of her.

 _Ariel could make out her faint reflection in the window. Seeing her image superimposed over a sea of light and glamor was something dangerously close to sublime. She wondered if anyone down there could see her? This was probably the strangest time to get self-conscious._

 _She felt a hand stroke her hair while another cupped her breast, the rhythm steadily picking up. Pressing her head against the window, Ariel's thoughts were on her men, hoping that their leisure was worth their new commitments. It was the first good deal they had had in a while. She had told them that she was meeting their employer in his home for business reasons._

 _Right before her bubble burst, the bond was severed. Her employer spun her around and planted his lips on hers. An unconventional climax, but Ariel wasn't one for complaining considering the alternative._

 _The man drew back, gasping as he held onto her. "…Breather?" he suggested. Ariel nodded, and she was escorted back to the couch where they started. She sat down, stretched herself as her employer grabbed a towel to wipe them both down. When this had first been arranged, they came up with rules to keep things from getting complicated. No kissing, no skipping protection, no staying the night, no pet names, and no saying the dreaded "L" word. Currently, only that last rule managed to survive._

 _As her boss finished refreshing himself and passed the towel over to her, Ariel stole a glance at her partner. He had a well-toned body, hairy in the right places. He seemed scruffy, and the collection of healed over wounds told her plenty about his past, even if she hadn't already heard the stories. He was older, but not so much as he couldn't keep up with her gang. Or her._

" _See anyone you know down there?" he joked as he looked for his boxers and jeans._

" _Most of the boys are at Gomorrah or the Wrangler," Ariel recounted. "The ones who aren't are well-behaved, so I wouldn't worry too much about them."_

" _If you say so, you'd know them and I trust you," he replied. Coming to New Vegas was the best decision she had ever made in her career. She arrived right at a time when security was of the utmost importance. What started as a few easy caravan jobs soon turned to fend off some ambitious California raiders. This earned her the attention of the man in charge._

 _Ariel was never shy about using her looks to get people to underestimate her, she came off as younger-looking than she actually was and could feign naivety for good measure, though things would only ever go as far as she would allow it. To the man's credit, he didn't even attempt to seduce or woo her. After a few bad rounds at the roulette table, Ariel was desperate enough for money to come to him for an offer. When he paid upfront and declined her end of the deal, it became a matter of pride for her. A few months later and things had now gotten to the point where she was debating with herself as to whether or not to move in with him for convenience's sake._

" _So, you were telling me about this "Fort Wrath?" the man spoke up after handing her a glass of water._

" _It's this huge raider city where a bunch of the biggest gangs strangle the life out of the smaller ones and anyone passing through Texas," Ariel explained as she gulped down her drink. "Place has enough guns to raise several armies. My brother started a fight there once. Once," she stressed._

 _The man stroked the hair on his chin. "…By guns, are we just talking small arms and portable lasers or howitzers and flak cannons?" he asked._

 _Ariel stared at him. "…Why'd you ask?"_

" _Because I think they'll be getting guests soon, and I want to guess as to how hospitable they will be," he shrugged. "If the new neighbors get blown to pieces, fantastic, but if they don't have the right hardware, I'd at least want a crew to film the aftermath."_

" _What, you don't have anyone in the neighborhood who could follow them?" she asked._

 _He sighed. "Tempting as it is to peek on those bastards, we got enough concerns here. Once we get the first class of marshals ready, maybe."_

" _Forget those guys," Ariel dismissed the thought, "I'm talking bounty hunters. Guys who function outside of all those obnoxious regulations you and those cub scouts are drawing up."_

 _The man gave her a stink eye. "If I wanted to slap badges on any dickhead with a gun, this town would have me on my ass before the month was out. I need people who can think and find reasons not to shoot someone. If the NCR could've figured that out years ago, they'd be calling the shots and I'd still be delivering packages."_

 _Ariel laughed. Lars grinned in response. Even if she thought it was funny, it was still true. Now, he had to take the long way around nation-building when all it would've taken from the NCR was smarter management on their end. Still, even he was permitted to have some fun every now and then._

 _The elevator door opened. Councilman Gannon hurried out of the elevator, flanked by the Boones. Lars glowered at them. "What did I say about knocking?" he groused as Ariel stood up, stretched, and leisurely strolled to her clothing._

" _Lars, we just got word back from a prospector camp down south. Daleton has been destroyed, and no one is reporting any survivors," Natalie began. Ariel froze, feeling her throat tighten._

 _Lars cursed as he rose to his feet. "Did they have any word as to who did it? Did anyone take responsibility? Legion? Raiders?"_

 _Gannon looked over the reports he had received. "…The whole town was burned to the ground, and one of the prospectors who got close reported that he could hear chanting in Spanish. Something like "Santa Sangre, Santa Sangre."_

"… _Holy Blood," Ariel whispered. "…He finally made his way up here," emotions welling up inside her._

"… _Ariel?" Lars asked, concerned._

"… _Padre Hex finally got here," Ariel snarled as she balled her fists. "And I'm going to finally kill him once and for all."_

Sybil snapped back to reality as Ariel woke up from her trance. "…Well?" Ariel asked, "What did you see?"

"…You will live long enough into the future to make a living off your back," Sybil taunted.

Ariel leaped to her feet, ready to throw down with the lanky bitch. Someone had already beaten her to it, however. Eddie's knuckles struck across her cheek as his backhand cracked audibly. If Sybil was surprised by this outburst, she didn't show it. She merely wiped the trickle of blood from her mouth. "Did you predict that?" Eddie snarled.

"…You hit like my father," Sybil bluntly replied.

Ariel simply grabbed her weapon from the ground and stormed away from the psyker. "Ariel, wait!" Eddie called after her. He shot Sybil one last dirty look before heading off to calm his sister down. Sybil watched on, tempted to warn Eddie about the coming night. She eventually opted against it.

* * *

"So, yeah, the Greek pirates have had a blood feud going on with the Tunisian marauders since they realized the Mediterranean still had some value in it. Everything from fishing boats and yachts to cruise liners and cargo barges has been weaponized and thrown against the other over nautical turf. I don't find seawater agreeable, so don't expect a more detailed summary."

Vana nodded, understanding. Spectacle aside, elements like the Greek pirates and Romanian cultists were bit players in the overall quagmire that was Europe. Still, one could never learn enough. And there was still at least one more chapter she needed to hear before Desmond was finished.

"So, how are my two journeymen doing this fine evening?" Sybil announced as she approached.

"We aren't "yours," woman," Desmond snarked.

"Well, you don't belong to the Ximenez gang either, despite what you are having them believe," Sybil countered.

"Well, Eddie is an excellent employer," Vana mused aloud.

"Among other things," Sybil teased.

"…Adequate employer," Vana corrected. Sybil laughed. Vana, while disliking Sybil's abilities and habits, had eventually come to accept the uselessness of trying to hide things from her. She knew the only thing keeping her secrets safe was Sybil's disinterest, and Sybil did seem the type who was rather preoccupied with the raunchy and sordid.

"So, what do you want to see from me?" Vana asked. "Do you want to know about the bordello or the apprenticeship with Talon Company?"

"As… tantalizing as your life story is, I'm actually here to have a chat with your partner."

"Me?" Desmond began. "I'm flattered."

Sybil smiled. "Now, there's no need for exposition. I'm not here for dry information or your perspective on certain matters. I want to see something interesting."

"Well, by all means, have at it," Desmond bowed theatrically. "Not like I can stop you anyway."

"No fight?" Sybil asked. "No fun, but fair enough. You of all people should know there are some battles you cannot win…"

 _The desert sun bore down on the two operatives as they waited at the rendezvous. Dressed in the local garb and armed with the latest in covert weaponry, the soldier of the group checked the sun as the spy checked his watch._

" _Twenty-six minutes late," the soldier muttered. The spy's words died on his lips, having been beaten to that point. "Should I get on the line with Kavya and tell her we'll be late?" he asked._

 _Desmond shook his head. "Not yet. Until we verify where Neil is, radio silence is the rule."_

 _Jon snorted. "She's probably still at the hotel pool. Lazy bint. No point in bringing her along."_

 _Desmond smirked. Jon Waylon was a high school dropout who joined the Australian military and volunteered for the SASR to fight the growing threat of piracy in Southeast Asia so he could impress bargirls. Kavya Vasudevan was the daughter of Indian expats who graduated from Cambridge with honors and joined MI6 afterward. They met during a joint operation in Romania, a bait and snare operation on a man named Zoran Kovalenko. Desmond got his target, despite the petty infighting amongst his team. Despite Desmond's advice, they continued to find ways to antagonize one another. Of course, that was before Kavya's parents were introduced to him and admonished her for associating with such a crass and belligerent individual. Since then, they both described their relationship as "frenemies with benefits."_

 _This operation had been something of a pet project of Desmond's since joining MI6. With the superpowers of America and China on the wane, some in Her Majesties government saw the opportunity to "get the band back together." Canada, Australia, and India were involved in recreating a new British Empire to stabilize civilization after the two great nuclear powers of the planet fell. The biggest obstacle (other than centuries of historical grievances) was the Soviet Union, equally as ambitious even after being humbled by China. Just as Great Britain was looking to hold its allies together, so too was Russia. And with the capture of the mercenary commander, Desmond had finally found a window into the inner workings of some of the Soviets more underhanded dealings._

" _Well, if he's going to be late, we may as well go find him and have some fun," Desmond suggested._

" _You'd think being a spy would be more entertaining than this waiting game shit," Jon growled. "If I wanted to stand around with my dick in my hand, I'd have stayed with the regulars back in Sydney."_

" _Whereas Kavya and Neil never complain," Desmond replied. "Comes with being the analysts of the group while we tend to do the wetwork."_

 _Jon snorted. "You'd think the geeks would want more excitement after signing up for fieldwork?"_

 _Neil Genette was the hacker and codebreaker of their little international intelligence cell. The Canadian could pry apart most security systems a half-hour after being introduced to it. Kavya double majored in psychology and political science, being something of a "people person." She oversaw Zoran's interrogation, goading and taunting him to reveal information that they were currently acting on now. Seeing Kavya at work also provided Desmond with what he suspected Jon witnessed when the two of them were "off the clock."_

" _We all have our own ideas of fun," Desmond offered._

 _Three hours later, they arrived at the top of a nearby hill. They both ducked down at the sight of two Ural trucks parked outside a quaint little hovel in the valley. Desmond broke out his binoculars, looking at the newcomers as he swore under his breath. Most of the men wore prisoner garb overlaid by the barest protective armor and tactical gear. They stood at a casually attentive stance, weapons drawn before them. Curiously, all of them seemed to be wearing respirator masks in addition to gas tanks on their backs. There was no doubt about it. The team had stumbled onto elements of the Soviet 66_ _th_ _Penal Shock Battalion. Markovich's dogs of war._

 _Two Kazakh civilians, a man, and a woman were shoved out of the home by a Russian. This one not dressed like the other soldiers, wearing a keffiyeh and less dated body armor. From near the shed, a man wearing an old-style gasmask pried a small child from his hiding place, dragging him towards the couple. As the couple begged and pleaded, Mr. Gasmask knelt down beside the child, pulled out his pistol, and held it to his head._

" _Twisted motherfucker," Jon growled._

 _The couple tried to argue with the aggressor, only for Mr. Gasmask to fire his pistol in the air once, causing the civilians to jump. After a few moments of continued interrogation, Mr. Gasmask eventually lost patience and shot the child in the foot. This broke Neil's keepers, surrendering his hiding place. Mr. Gasmask shoved the wounded child into the arms of his weeping parents as his assistant and two of the soldiers stormed into the hovel. Desmond and Jon could imagine the sounds of the struggle as the soldiers fished out the Canadian agent inside, dragging him to his knees before Mr. Gasmask._

 _Jon was assembling his weapon. Desmond kept watching even as he took account of the wind. Neil tried arguing with Mr. Gasmask, who took all the Canadian's insults and curses in stride. When Neil petered out, Mr. Gasmask took his weapon and emptied the clip into the family. Jon had unfolded his tripod by the time Mr. Gasmask continued his interrogation. "Forget it, Jon. We can't save Neil from here," Desmond told him._

" _Neil knew what he was getting into," Jon snarled. "I'm ending that son of a bitch."_

 _Mr. Gasmask had pulled out a gas canister. Neil struggled harder then he had since his capture. As Mr. Gasmask began to pry his concoction free, a bullet tore into his shoulder._

 _This caused, appropriately enough, a chain reaction. Mr. Gasmask dropped his canister as he fell to the ground in pain. His lieutenant immediately activated a device in his palm. The demeanor of the soldiers altered, going from placid to aggressive in a manner of milliseconds. After an initial period of firing wildly into the air, they recognized where the shots had originated, focusing their fire at the top of the hill with expertly drilled precision. Neil, in the meantime, had been shot in the back by the lieutenant. In a show of bravado neither Jon nor Desmond expected he had, he grabbed the canister from the ground even as it billowed that poisonous looking smoke and hurled it towards the lieutenant, striking him in the middle of the chest as they slowly succumbed to whatever was in that canister._

 _The firefight lasted a little over six minutes. Jon and Desmond plugged the soldiers with shots that would have absolutely put other soldiers out of commission. They wasted little time climbing down the mountain, not knowing how far out reinforcements were. As they neared the bottom, they could see the remains of Neil and the lieutenant. Their bodies had withered away, skin clinging tightly to their bones even though it seemed to not affect their clothing. The Ruskies had been upping their chemical weapons research, never being ones afraid to fight dirty. The civilians had mercifully perished before inhaling its toxic fumes, having dissipated after a while though Neil had been left to die in agony. As Jon went to find a bucket, Desmond approached the lone survivor of the encounter. Mr. Gasmask._

 _It looked like his collarbone had been broken. Poor thing. As he struggled to his feet, Desmond leveled his weapon in front of him. "Mask off," he ordered. With his working arm, the man reluctantly unsealed his mask, dropping it to the floor as Desmond let out a humorless chuckle. "We meet at last, Markovich."_

 _Markovich glared at him as Jon emptied the Ural's fuel into the bucket. Desmond had to bend more than a few rules to make this operation happen and break the rest. As such, there could be no evidence they had ever been here, save for one lone prisoner. Jon dutifully covered the bodies in fuel, setting a lighter to it as the hovel burned to the ground._

 _As they loaded their incapacitated prisoner onto the remaining Ural, after doing the standard bug and bomb check, Desmond got in the back as Jon offered to drive. "Now we tell Kavya and the others to meet at the place," Desmond told his escort. "Bring insurance as needed."_

 _Jon nodded. The safehouse in Alexandria was one of MI6's favorite haunts, political tensions or not. Plus he'd never been to Egypt, so that was something to look forward to. Meanwhile, Desmond found himself sitting across from his adversary, looking less than grateful for that impromptu splint Desmond felt generous enough to fix him up with. "…So, how have you been, Aleks?" Desmond began, sounding insincerely friendly._

"… _Lockheart, is it?" Markovich began. "…The other two agents you sent to me were very forthcoming about your identity." Desmond pushed the thoughts of Gansby and Reginald out of his head. "…And Zoran told us a lot about you," Desmond countered._

 _Markovich laughed. "I can imagine. I take it you are outsourcing help as I didn't have any information about you working with Aussies or Canucks."_

 _Desmond smiled in the least friendly manner he could. "Now, now, little Aleks, let's just not worry about that yet. There'll be plenty of time for that when we are ready."_

As Sybil pulled away, Desmond felt the strangest pang in his chest. Looking back at it, he remembered that that incident was the last time he ever took honest pride in something he worked on. No centuries-long grudges, no real politicking, not even any further compromised moral or ethical wetwork he had just grown accustomed to. For just this one time, at tremendous cost and sacrifice, he saw the good guys beat the bad ones. After that, everything went wrong.

"And here I was not taking you as a romantic," Sybil purred.

Desmond regained his composure. "Satisfied?" he asked. Sybil shrugged but nodded. "Good," and with that, he took Vana to prepare for the coming battle. Sybil couldn't blame him, for she had to do much of the same. As Sybil strode towards her tent, she watched the sun ebb below the horizon. It was only a matter of time until destiny would arrive.

 _She could hear the roar of the crowd as she looked upon the arena. From her box seat, the Coliseum of Fort Wrath would witness its greatest event. In the middle of the ring stood a proud warrior, clad in gilded armor and a bull-shaped helmet. In his hand was a make-shift cleaver the size of a man. The warrior looked up to Sybil, who beamed down towards him with pride. She sat beside the warrior's father, who looked down upon his son with great expectations._

 _The gate rose. The crowd grew silent. The lizard sprang out, claws at the ready as it charged the warrior. The warrior drew his weapon at the ready, prepared to hack off a limb if necessary. Unlikely, seeing as it wouldn't come to that._

 _The lizard had been starved for days, so hunger was the only thing at the forefront of its mind. Upon reaching the warrior, its hunger had been forgotten, as a sense of peace and obedience washed over it. It knelt before the warrior, and the crowd erupted into a massive cheer._

 _Sybil looked over to Caesar, grinning as he huffed in annoyance. "…Your training has been successful," he admitted._

" _Praise be to the Master, and to the mighty Caesar," Sybil bowed in "respect."_

" _I'm surprised you leave out praising your womb," Caesar added. "Such a display in humility is so unlike you, O wise and benevolent Oracle."_

" _I cannot take credit for this, much as I may wish," Sybil admitted. "Now, the Master's dream has finally been realized. A new race of man, superior in all aspect to all who preceded. My next task is to oversee the breeding stock."_

" _Should not your "superior" offspring decide on the selection himself?" Caesar asked._

 _Sybil smiled. "Why, my dear Lanius, surely you've heard the expression "Mother knows best?"_


	11. Cold War Conflict

Chapter 11: Cold War Conflict

 _Desmond slowly came to as the doorway cracked open. He tried to pick himself up from the ground as he felt the steel restraints on his wrists sealing him to the pipe. Cursing to himself, he looked up in time to see the large figure enter the room. He was a big lad, roughly seven feet tall, burly as all hell, and wore a jumpsuit and a welders mask under all his body armor. His body twitched erratically every few seconds or so, the only thing preventing him from rending Desmond apart being the radio collar resting on his neck. Still, that mini-cannon perched on his right shoulder remained fixed on Desmond, prompting him to stow any back-sass he may have been tempted to share._

"… _So, this is the sub-level?" Desmond began. The figure stared at him. "…Not the chatty kind, eh? Fair enough. I didn't come to talk much, either. Where's your master?"_

 _Receiving no response, Desmond tried to get as comfortable as possible, tall order that it was. The mission thus far hadn't managed to surprise him, yet. This was always a possibility. Things could always have gone wrong. So far, though, only he had been captured. Everyone else was MIA, and the extraction team was God knows where. So far, as much as he could tell, he was the only one screwed at the moment._

 _The shadow in the corridor drew closer. Footsteps echoed. Desmond sat upright. From the profile alone, he could feel his non-existent hair stand on the back of his neck. The figure turned around the corner._

 _He wore a military-style long coat. His ushanka and gas mask still concealed his features, but by now Desmond didn't need any other hints. In his hand, he carried a small case. He looked down at the battered spy, motioned for the sentry to leave, and sat cross-legged before his prisoner. "Desmond," Markovich spoke trying to hide his elation._

 _Desmond fumed in anger. The ambush had separated him from his team in the Ukraine, and now he found himself at the mercy of his most contemptible adversary. The man placed the case before him, snapping it open as he held his gaze unto his prisoner. Desmond's eyes darted from the case to the man. His mind raced with all manner of torture apparatuses Aleksandr was saving for him._

 _Markovich pulled out a thermos, unscrewed it, and poured himself a cup of soup. He offered it to Desmond. "…No thank you," Desmond answered. Shrugging, Markovich lifted up his mask as he took a sip. From that glimpse, Desmond saw the mass of raw muscle tissue and mechanical fibers coursing through his chin._

" _Experimenting with a little DIY immortality, are you?" Desmond asked._

 _Aleksandr stopped drinking, turned to Desmond, and flashed a smile so he could get a good look at his chrome teeth. "Like you is one to talk, agent."_

 _Desmond looked around. "I take it we aren't in Kiev anymore? Where then? Moscow? Stalingrad? Murmansk?"_

 _Aleksandr placed the mask back over his face. "Somewhere closer to the east. We estimate that soon your associates will arrive to either liberate or silence you, seeing as Melanie isn't one to share her toys. As we speak, my ally is preparing to assess their strength."_

" _Boss Tseng?" Desmond asked. Aleksandr didn't reply. "What is it you see in him, anyway?" Desmond asked._

" _I… appreciate him," Aleksandr answered. "He never asks for anything I am unwilling to give. Certain people could learn from him."_

" _Melanie is the only one who cared," Desmond replied. "I just wanted you brought down."_

 _Aleksandr laughed. "So, by whose orders brought you to my doorstep? Your government's, your pride's, or hers?"_

" _I came here out of obligation," Desmond answered. "Whatever payment involved was merely a bonus."_

" _From patriot to mercenary," Aleksandr spoke as he lifted himself up. "I almost feel sorry for you. I'll save that for after we crush Melanie's errand boys when they arrive. Nikita estimates we have a few hours before they do. Would you like another front-row seat?"_

* * *

 _Jon lay back in his suite, flipping through channels that contained mostly static. Her Majesties government had requisitioned the hotel after the Egyptian regime collapsed and most major cities became occupied territory. This particular hotel in Alexandria was hosting an unusual amount of British expats. Largely from the SAS or MI-6, the former for security and the latter for intelligence._

 _His bathroom door opened as Kavya strode out, drying her dark hair with the largest towel the hotel provided. As she entered the room, she blocked Jon's view of the television._

" _Do you mind?" Jon asked the naked woman before him. Kavya glowered at him before draping the towel over the television screen. Jon snorted, propping himself up against the headboard as Kavya sat at the desk to look over her paperwork. It mostly contained notes from the prior interrogations earlier in the week. She was certain she was making progress, but recently this progress resembled efforts to carve through concrete with a toothpick. Her interrogation of Kovalenko had gone without a hitch, cracking at the first mention of his father before shattering to pieces upon learning that she had dispatched a special auditor to seize assets he thought had been hidden._

 _In contrast, Markovich had kept his lips sealed as Kavya tried desperately to locate anything that resembled a familial or even remotely affectionate tie. Seduction: failed. Bribery: failed. Fear of death or bodily harm; he enjoyed the helicopter ride and asked if they were going to go on another one. Kavya chewed on her pen as she drew up the next two months of sessions._

" _If you are going to lounge around naked all day, why can't you do it in your room?" Jon asked as he pulled the towel from the television._

 _Kavya turned to look at him. "Your room is closer to central command, and I can optimize my time better this way. Besides, reception is terrible on the top floor and I do not want to waste time troubleshooting in the event of an equipment malfunction."_

 _She was full of shit, of course. There was nothing wrong with the reception. And for all her talk of optimizing time, recently Waylon had proven to be significantly more successful getting inside Kavya then she had to Markovich. Her last phone call to her parents had involved an admonishment for not finding a suitable husband yet and wondering when she was going to abandon her professional career and settle down. She had decided months ago that every time her parents infuriated her, she would sleep with Waylon out of spite. Thus far, they were a quarter of the way through the Kama Sutra._

" _I'm bored," Jon groaned._

" _I'm sorry to hear that," Kavya shrugged, not even looking over._

" _I'd rather be in Baghdad than waiting around here. Maybe I can get a transfer and sign up with the krauts," Jon continued. "Anything's better than waiting around here for nothing."_

" _Any day now," Kavya tried to placate. "Everyone has a weakness."_

" _And he probably figured yours out by now," Jon replied._

" _Excuse me?" Kavya turned to look him in the eyes._

" _I mean, if I had to guess, you're too tightly wound, you have trouble relating to people normally, not to mention you kind of come off as an elitist. Yeah, I know, Cambridge and all that, but Markovich is an egghead, too. He probably treats this like a game."_

" _And what would you propose?" Kavya snapped at him, "Getting him drunk and beating him in a fistfight?"_

" _I mean, don't fix what ain't broke," Jon continued. "He's a skinny little twerp. Probably can't even do ten pushups without an inhaler."_

 _Kavya was tempted to respond, but thought against it. The techniques she used to interrogate Markovich were secretive, but force had been one of them. She had three SAS grunts pummel the man for fifteen hours. Markovich hadn't spoken a peep for the entire duration. Actually, that wasn't true. He couldn't stop laughing._

" _Just stay in your lane. That's what your pension is for," Kavya sighed as she returned to her notes._

" _Heh, you sound like your mom," Jon laughed._

 _The pen snapped. Kavya let the pen fall from her lips as she turned towards the Aussie. "…Take your fucking pants off, now." Kavya may have possessed a degree in psychology, but Jon Waylon had quickly learned about the benefits of reverse psychology the more he hung around her. To him, Kavya was easy to read, but in the best way. On the other hand, what had started as a complicated relationship built on mutual spite and a longstanding desire to rebel against her strict upbringing had become something almost affectionate on her end. Jon was everything her traditional family hated, and a window into a liberated world and life._

 _A series of faint popping noises interrupted what was promising to be the high point of their afternoon. The amount and frequency started to alarm Jon. Sliding his pants back on, he peeked through the blinds to see a large convoy of trucks storming towards the hotel. In the distance, helicopters were converging towards their position. Jon groaned as he shut the blinds. "So much for military intelligence."_

" _An attack?" Kavya asked, incredulously as she went for her suitcase. "The front lines are hundreds of clicks from here."_

" _I don't think they're natives," Jon explained as he reached for his gear. "I'm going to find Desmond. Get ready to extract Markovich after you make yourself decent, looks like today won't be such a waste after all."_

" _Well, at least one of us will have fun," Kavya muttered as she slid on her underwear and fished for a bra._

* * *

 _At the lip of the woods, Ines went over the ugly looking facility once more. Part mine, part industrial park, and part power plant, this place probably looked like hell on earth before the bombs even dropped. Surely, this place had to be the one. This had to be where their targets were hiding._

 _The mission in the Ukraine had gone as smoothly as one to the Grave Tempest could have been. A small and light force that kept on the move and avoided the horrors within, thanks to Haldor serving as their guide. Botchlings, direwolves, yagas, strigoi, pricolici, krakonochs, and particularly balaurs were some of the things he had warned the group to be on the lookout for. All were names from eastern European folklore, but with the nature of the Grave Tempest evident to them all, they treated Haldor's experience with the utmost respect. Even the lowest of these threats, the botchlings, was cause enough to force them to abandon their shelter for the night. Which allowed them to walk right into an ambush._

 _The hulking warriors moved in a somewhat automaton-like nature, seemingly more machine than human. Even Haldor's massive strength did little to rock them off their feet. Mustafa was the first to advise retreat, and that evidently saved most of their group from annihilation. Desmond, however, wasn't so lucky. Acting as the rear guard, he was surrounded and taken by the adversaries. They had only come to realize this when they linked up with Sergeant Wolfgang._

 _Melanie did not want Desmond in her target's hands, so she ordered the group to trail and either rescue or eliminate their truant leader. And so the troop carrier followed in hot pursuit, as well as it could under sub-zero temperatures. At times, they lost the trail, but every so often a group of scavengers could be persuaded to lend information. Malocchio and Haldor proved to have quite the gift for it. All mentioned the same location, a land of black magic and inexplicable phenomena. Scholomance._

" _Wolfgang wants a report," Mustafa spoke as he shivered his way to Ines._

 _Ines pointed out the guards at the perimeter. "Those hulking beasts have every entry point covered. I doubt even Malocchio would risk an infiltration. I count at least fifty or so of those monsters in the upper stories, and doubtless more lay within._

" _Wolfgang seemed to prefer a more direct approach. Or at least his men did," Mustafa surmised._

" _Then it will be their funeral as well as Desmond's," Ines growled. The krauts had been almost ceaseless in their harassment of the Frenchwoman. The only reasons it didn't escalate further were Mustafa's severe castigations. When that failed, Wolfgang threatened to discipline any subordinate as he saw fit. Later, when a soldier named Hans waited for his moment and tried to force himself on her after she went to use the bathroom alone, the matter was settled once and for all when Malocchio ambushed the soldier and plucked out one of his eyes. Wolfgang executed the soldier and Malocchio offered Ines a grisly souvenir. The point was there would be little lost love between her and the krauts. But as satisfying as seeing them all gunned down would have been, it would mean nothing to Desmond. Ines was adamant that Desmond be extracted alive._

 _A fleet of trucks entered her periphery. Ines watched in fascination as the convoy drove up to the gate. The sentry beast guarding it opened the chain link gateway as his brethren came out to investigate. Out of the lead truck, from the back, a large figure hopped out, reliving the stressed suspension. Ines gawked in shock. In sub-zero temperatures, this man wore only trousers, leaving the vast majority of his skin exposed. Or at least, what seemed to be skin. The figure, towering ever so slightly over the masked sentry, spoke and carried himself like his authority was self-evident. The monsters obliged, and the trucks were allowed inside the facility._

" _Huh. Well, that's a lovely sight," Mustafa snarked. "Our enemies have some friends. Our job just got so much harder."_

 _Ines sighed as she let her binoculars fall limp. "…We must tell Wolfgang nonetheless. It's going to be a tough fight, but I see no other options…"_

 _Malocchio pointed to a different portion of the facility. Ines and Mustafa, both no longer startled by his sudden appearances, obliged and focused on the western portion. A lone truck had parked itself away from the rest of the convoy. The sentries were evidently less than pleased by the deviation, showcasing more agitation than before. One seemed to be howling at the driver while two others stormed to the back. What the observers didn't expect was for one of them to be peppered with arrows while the other suddenly and inexplicably began to attack its wounded comrade._

 _Just then did the driver dive from the truck, drawing a sword as he began a systematic carving of the remaining sentry before it could even react. Another figure popped from the back of the truck and shot arrows as the beast fell to its knees. Finally, a dirty looking figure climbed from the back of the truck. The appearance of this man utterly flabbergasted Ines. The other at least wore pants. Even his companions were dressed for the weather. This man looked like he was just wearing a sheet to cover his vitals in addition to the turban. As all three sentries lay dead, the trio made their way inside with no one the wiser._

"… _Get Wolfgang," Ines finally said as she turned away. "Looks like we found a way in and maybe some friends."_

* * *

 _Jon Waylon made his way to the fifth floor of the hotel, which had been reconfigured into a temporary command center for the British intelligence assets in Alexandria. Desmond was busy barking commands over radio chatter. From what Jon could glean, the trucks had effectively blockaded all routes to and from the hotel. There were other reports stating that insurgent attacks on local airfields were grounding all units, rendering an evac unlikely. This could not have been coincidental. Launching such a brazen attack in the middle of British occupied territory took more planning then the local rebels were capable of even if they stopped their infighting._

 _Desmond noticed Jon approach as rockets slammed against one of the upper floors. "Looks like Moscow doesn't want to risk Markovich cracking," Desmond yelled._

" _We sure it's the Ruskies?" Jon had to ask._

" _Well, looks like most of the forces seem to be on the expendable side. Some of his buddies must have gathered the rest of the penal battalion and whatever mercenaries Kovalenko didn't sell out to make sure he doesn't squeal."_

" _They're not looking to extract?" Jon asked as Kavya slid down the hallway, having finished pulling the bulletproof vest over her blouse._

" _Nice to see you join us, agent. I take it you were busy?" Desmond couldn't resist asking._

" _Save it, Desmond. This hotel isn't designed to withstand aerial bombardment. Where's our prisoner?"_

 _As she said it, two SAS commandos yanked the weathered figure from the stairway, black bag still over his head. He spoke something in slurred Russian, prompting one of his guards to plant a rifle butt in his stomach. The prisoner giggled._

" _So, here's the plan. I got damn near the whole detachment near the ground floor waiting to repel whatever charge they have coming our way. The rest are going to grab some heavy guns or missiles and swat those flies buzzing around spitting rockets at us. Meanwhile, me and the rest of the circus here are going to see if anyone in this city has a spare helicopter."_

" _Can't our local boys just flank the blockade and take care of it from there?" Jon asked._

" _Sergeant, right now it's looking like every little insurgent club and their mothers is acting up and hammering our positions. The board is lighting up like Saigon during Tet. The cavalry is busy. That's where you two come in."_

 _Desmond grabbed Markovich by the back of his neck, practically throwing him into Jon's arms. "We keep that man out of Ivan's hands for as long as possible. Get to the roof, hold position, and await evacuation. His life is top priority. Don't even think of putting one in his brain until the AK is halfway up your asshole."_

" _Agent Lockheart!" a voice screamed over the radio. "Troops are repelling via choppers from the roof!"_

" _Sandwiched," Desmond growled as he grabbed an assault rifle. "Looks like I'll be joining you to the top."_

" _No need," Jon said as he cracked his neck. "I want to see how these Ivan's handle an Aussie country bloke."_

 _Kavya took a spare shotgun off a commando as he parted. "If egos were bulletproof, you'd be unstoppable."_

" _Just what do you think you'll be doing with that?" Jon looked her over, skeptically._

" _I'm field certified. Passed the Royal Marine course not long after I moved to Westminster."_

" _Really? I thought you just did deskwork and lounged around your house naked?"_

 _Several of the commandos and a few of the agents suddenly turned towards the striking Indian woman. "PRIORITIES, PEOPLE!" Kavya snapped, glaring at Jon._

" _I'm just saying it's going to be hairy. Wouldn't fault you for staying behind helping get someone on the horn," Jon tried to persuade her._

" _Shut it," Kavya said as she grabbed Markovich by the arm and dragged him to the stairs. "I'm not letting what'll be my masterpiece slip away while I can do anything about it." Jon watched as she disappeared around the corner, sighed, and prepared himself to do the hardest thing he was ever about to do._

* * *

 _Markovich rounded the corner with a flourish. "Tseng Wen! Always a pleasure to see you! I trust the journey was pleasant?"_

 _The Mountain King sat on the floor, his hearty and calcified frame rendering any nearby chair worthless to him. Even sitting down, he saw his host at eye level._

" _Old friend. What gifts do you have for me?" he rumbled._

" _Well, I have more weapons, some information perhaps, and oh yes, more serum if you are willing."_

 _The Mountain King extended his arm. "The usual, then."_

 _Markovich extended out his hand, and from that, the talons shot out. He carved into the warlord's nigh impenetrable hide, the most recent wound since the last appointment. Tseng didn't wince until the needle struck his tender meat, the concoction entering his bloodstream. This procedure had a 99.96 percent lethality rate, and very few humans had the necessary faculties to survive long past the transformation. As Tseng began to meditate, his heart began to slow as his mind and chi made to accommodate the newest dosage. After a few minutes, the Mountain King was once again invincible._

 _Markovich watched the warlord with great interest and perception. "…Something bothering you, Tseng?"_

"… _It's nothing. I've just lost a few captains over the past few months. Ones that are hard to replace. I also find myself missing a truck from my own personal convoy."_

" _The Mountain King lives in fear of thieves and assassins in the shadows?" Markovich replied, more bemused than anything. "How quaint."_

" _They cannot hide in the shadows for long. I know their identities. One is a lost little dog from the Stronghold. Another is a wasteland rat that has forgotten her station. And the final irritant who joined this insufferable little trio is a monk from the south who has proven to be especially troublesome."_

" _Los three amigos!" Markovich sang, giddy. "Sounds like a pulp comic!"_

 _Tseng snorted. "Coming from you?"_

 _Markovich giggled. "So, might I interest you in what I have cooking up?"_

 _Tseng leaned forward. "You still selling monsters?"_

" _I got one nearly done in my silo as we speak. Once I get the radio chip installed in the brain, it will be yours to command."_

 _The Mountain King grinned. "I can think of at least three morsels it can enjoy, once I get my hands on them."_

" _Indeed," Markovich laughed. "…You said one was from the Stronghold?"_

" _For a pampered hole-dweller, he's proven most annoying," Tseng sneered._

" _Well, that could prove most interesting. There's only one reason someone from there would come this far west," Markovich muttered to himself._

" _An alliance with your ex-lover?" Tseng grinned._

 _Markovich bristled, and Tseng sank back. "Do not remind me. Not even as a joke."_

" _My mistake, Aleksandr, I apologize," the Mountain King bowed his head._

 _Markovich exhaled. "Well, ancient history is all in the past. I suppose it would be fitting to locate any interlopers we find. As it was, I was already expecting company. What are three more plates at the party?"_

* * *

 _The first few flights of stairs went without incident. The final three floors, on the other hand, had been hellacious firefights. It appeared the helicopters had dropped a platoon of Serbian mercenaries on top of the hotel, which was only occupied by six SAS commandos and three MI-6 operatives once the battle began. They had just about been overrun by the time the three had made it to the floors, though at least the security detail managed to dispatch half the intruders once Jon began his sweeps._

 _With Kavya covering him, Jon efficiently and systematically cleared the floors even as rockets continued to bombard the hotel base. Every now and then, Kavya would hear a pop followed by the wild sounds of a helicopter spinning out of control. Clearly, Desmond's defensive coordination was on point, though there remained the possibility of a wounded bird crashing into the building. Kavya pushed the thought aside as she nailed a merc peeking around a corner before he could flank Jon._

" _Leave the rest!" Jon called out as he coup de graced the last wounded mercenary. "They can't stop us and Desmond can handle the rest. I'm taking one of those choppers before they get away!"_

" _What about the IFF?" Kavya asked as she pulled Markovich to his feet. "We'd be sitting ducks for any friendly base we try to land at."_

" _I'd rather spend an afternoon in a brig than risk getting shot by one of these amateurs," Jon explained as he kicked down the door to the service ladder._

 _The three climbed to the top of the roof as another of the attack craft erupted in flames and spun out. Looking over the edge, Kavya could see friendly tanks engaging with the hostile roadblocks, watching as a rocket impacted the armor of one, leaving behind a scorched hull as it retaliated and landed a shell in the middle of a Russian truck. This new intervention caused the attacking aircraft to focus on trying to dismantle the cavalry, leaving the skies directly above the hotel clear._

" _Fuck!" Jon swore. "I wanted to take one of their rides."_

" _Can you even fly?" Kavya yelled._

" _What? It's just like driving a car! With a Z-axis!" Jon shrugged._

 _Kavya rolled her eyes as she ripped Markovich's hood from his head. One of his eyelids had swelled to the size of a golf ball, and it looked like he was bleeding from every visible orifice. Kavya leaned down to whisper to him. "You hear that? That's the rest of your battalion of murderers and rapists being cut down by Her Majesty's finest. Your legacy of cruelty has come to an end. I want you to tell me how it feels?" she taunted._

"… _You look like a lot of the women I gave to my men as rewards," Markovich replied. "Did I tell you that during our lovely sessions? It was like throwing a toy to a pack of dogs to ensure good behavior. Of course, they also tended to last as long as dog toys. It is a shame. I think my men would have found you so much more enjoyable than that Canadian I killed. What was his name?"_

" _His name was Neil Genette," Kavya hissed. "And he was my friend."_

" _If you valued him so, then why didn't you take his place in the field?" Markovich asked. "Perhaps you just value your time, life and body more then you valued him? Understandable, if not a little selfish. But then, who am I to judge?" Markovich grinned. He looked over, giving Jon an inspector's glance. "So, that's your knight in shining armor? Does he serve as a shoulder to cry on or someone to warm your bed? Spare me the details, please. I'm not interested. But is he your one and only? I don't think you're his. Look at him, all masculine with his chiseled jaw and his muscles and…"_

" _Are you asking me to fuck you?" Jon asked as he unwrapped some gum._

 _Markovich snorted. "The two of you could both be naked and neither of you would do anything for me. Pathetic, really, how people are so enslaved by instinct and simple neurochemicals. Same with morality. Pretending to weep for strangers on the other side of the planet, embarrassing. Like your masters care what I do to a handful of backwards villages in the middle of nowhere," Markovich spat._

" _Let us just pray your cellmate shares the same mentality," Kavya stated as she pulled Markovich to his feet. "Who knows, maybe he'll even fancy you?"_

" _Prison rape joke," Markovich snorted. "How predictable."_

 _Jon looked up as he saw another chopper approach the hotel roof. He sighed as Kavya made to take Markovich back under the hotel. "Don't bother, it ain't Russian," Jon announced as he waved it down._

"… _It isn't British, either. Unmarked?" Kavya asked as she pulled her prisoner towards the incoming craft._

" _They'll take him," Jon replied, getting behind the two as they approached._

 _The door slid open. Two red eyes flashed behind goggles as the door gunner swung his weapon towards the three. The emotionless facemask glared down the group as several of the armored troopers hopped from the back and approached, guns trained on Kavya._

 _In response, she pulled up her sidearm. "Identify yourselves!" Kavya screamed as she held Markovich closer and backed into Jon. As she did, she felt something press against her back. "…Jon, wha-"_

 _Despite her vest, the bullet tore through her kidney as she dropped to the ground in pain and shock. She clutched her side in pain as the shadow loomed over her. Looking up, she saw the manically grinning Markovich preparing to stomp his boot down on her neck. Jon slugged him in the jaw as the troopers trained their guns towards the traitor. "You know what to do with him," he said as he dropped his gun to his side, raising his hands. The troopers scooped up Markovich and dragged him to the doorway. Before he vanished into the craft, he turned and, grinning wildly, waved at Kavya before disappearing._

 _Jon stood over her as she reached for her gun. He stepped on her wrist as she managed to grip it. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes as blood dripped from her mouth. "…Don't bother talking, there really isn't that much to say." Jon looked down at her. "Look, things were… real fun. And I know this doesn't mean a whole lot to you now, but this isn't the least bit personal. I begged you to stay with Desmond." He ran his hand down his face as he pulled his side arm out. "Twenty million, if you have to know. That's why I did it. Just that simple. And for what little it's worth," Jon said as he pointed his gun towards her. "…I know I'm going to regret this."_

 _The door gunner watched as the mole fired a single round before wordlessly turning to join the chopper. He entered just before several commandos flooded out from the hotel. The helicopter wasted no time extracting its new cargo, speeding away and dropping flares for the missiles that tried to follow._

 _Desmond entered the roof just in time to see the shrinking speck in the sky as well as one of his agents bleeding out. "Get a goddamned medic!" he shrieked as he went to Kavya. He felt her pulse. Weak, but still there. He glanced at her face. Still in pain, in shock, and judging from the bullet hole smoldering right beside her head, nursing a hell of a headache._

* * *

 _A slap stung Jon across the cheek as his new employer scolded him. "You struck him?!" Melanie shrieked. Jon shrugged. "He's alive, isn't he? As promised." Melanie glared at him before turning her attention to Markovich. She straddled him on the bench, running kisses up and down his neck and face. "I've missed you. So much. You have no. Idea." She said between breaths. Markovich squirmed, hands still tied behind his back. "Melanie, I'm most grateful for your efforts, but I must insist…"_

 _Melanie pressed her finger against his lips as she shushed him "Shh. Don't speak. You can pay me back when I take you home. I can keep you hidden indefinitely. We can have all. The. Time. In. The. World," as she started kissing him ever deeper. Markovich shuddered as her tongue started massaging his ear. He stared out at the armored troopers who merely stared back, watching on as the employer they had all fantasized about threw herself upon the one guy who didn't reciprocate. Jon Waylon, or Walter Schuler as he was now identified, merely chuckled grimly as he tipped his cap over his eyes to take a restless sleep._

* * *

 _As Desmond thought back to his meeting with Markovich, he hoped for his team's sake that they just wrote him off for dead and left him to his fate. He knew that wasn't an option, they had to verify and take care of the loose end, but he felt nervous all the same. Having teams and Markovich never really meshed all that well. Really, it would have been best if he had arrived here alone, as dragging others into these messes he found himself in always brought pain._

 _He thought of Ines and Mustafa, recognizing the attraction between them that he had seen so long ago before. If they wanted a happy ending, they had to leave this business as soon as possible. They had to realize this by now. The longer they spent around people like Melanie and Aleksandr, the more their souls would be corrupted. It was already too late for people like him and Malocchio, and Haldor would never be more than a wild animal. In his mind, these two represented the last, best hope for Europe._

 _He quickly brushed the thoughts aside. Sentiment was never supposed to be his forte. Teams always brought the worst out of him. Perhaps from now on, he would settle for a single specialist operator, and maybe some animals if he was truly so starved for companionship. Heartache helped no one._

 _It did not take him long to begin noticing a strange pattern in the air. Though muffled by who knows how many levels and walls, he could make out the sound of sharp grunts and painful thuds. Desmond decided to keep his wits about him. No sense in just hoping whomever these newcomers were would be the generous sort. Before much time passed, he could hear the noises on his level. Now, he could make out the sound of arrows being launched from a notch, as well as the sound of a blade severing tendons and meat. All this damage without firearms?_

 _It did not take long for the strangers to find themselves outside Desmond's door. They began bickering, in a language that sounded familiar but Desmond hadn't specialized in, at least in the last century. He heard someone slap something against the door, and braced himself seeing as he had no cover to hide behind. Another voice bickered back and seemed to fish out something from a bag. As they did, the other voice began speaking. Though he did not know the words he spoke, Desmond could surmise from the intonations that the other voice was heckling his partner. The partner just snapped back for a little, clearly focusing on whatever they were in front of despite the former's unhelpfulness and constant taunts. It all came to a stop when they heard a click, and Desmond couldn't help but feel a little pride for #2._

 _The cell door opened, and an Asian man with a mop of hair on his head and chinstrap fuzz glowered at his partner as she beamed. She was small and spectacled, a bow hanging around her shoulder with two different quivers mixed with her survival gear. She placed the bobby pin into one of her pouches. Simultaneously, they both turned to see the ghoul chained to the pipe. The woman notched an arrow while the man told her to hold. He slowly approached sword drawn before him as he waved his hand in front of Desmond's face. "…Quit it!" Desmond snapped._

 _The man sighed in relief as the woman relaxed her guard. Desmond figured they were curious if he was feral or not. Instead, the man merely placed his blade against Desmond's neck. He figured the man wouldn't be hesitating if he thought Desmond actually was feral. Progress was progress._

" _Mandarin?" the man asked._

"… _You're asking if I can speak Chinese?" Desmond replied._

" _Cantonese?" the woman asked, hopeful._

"… _It's been years, loves. I can point and grunt, but that's the best you'll get out of me," Desmond snarked._

 _It was at that moment that a dark-skinned and nearly emaciated looking man turned the corner. His eyes were closed, as he seemed to be in some kind of trance-like prayer. Whatever he was doing, Desmond felt like he was having a minor migraine for a few seconds. Then, suddenly, it stopped. The man opened his eyes, revealing the pearly white nothingness his eyelids hid. "…Can you understand us now?"_

 _Desmond blinked. His lips weren't matching with his words, but he understood the man perfectly. "…Who are you?"_

 _The skinny man bowed. "Greetings. My name is Rumali. These are my companions Fan Xixi and Feng Jiasheng. We mean you no harm."_

" _Great, we're all talking the same language. Can we finally bust his ass out? We don't have long," Jiasheng growled._

" _No need," Desmond replied as he slipped his handcuffs off. "I was just waiting for the right opportunity."_

" _Fantastic," Jiasheng muttered. "Maybe we can feed you to the Mountain King before we make our getaway."_

" _Jiasheng!" Xixi scolded. "Don't mind him. He's an awful people person and doesn't know how to filter his commentary. Don't take this the wrong way, but the only reason we're doing this is because Rumali said there was someone we had to meet here. Got anything for us?" she asked._

 _Desmond looked the three over. "…Can't say I do. I didn't come here to send that kind of message."_

 _Jiasheng spat in annoyance. "Rumali, who did you say we were looking for, again?"_

 _Rumali stroked his beard. "…I don't know his name. I'll tell you when I figure it out."_

 _Xixi placed a hand on Rumali's shoulder. "…I think I'll handle navigation from this point forward if that's alright."_

" _I am most certain we are close-" Rumali tried to interject._

" _I insist," Xixi interrupted, smiling like a feral hound._

 _Desmond couldn't help but laugh. Lately, he had just become a magnet for dysfunctional families. Best he could hope for was saving himself and finding his allies before something horrible happened._

* * *

" _Welcome, honored guests! Welcome to Scholomance!" Markovich screamed over the loudspeaker. The intruders found themselves under the glare of spotlights dotting around the courtyard. From the shadows and corners, wiry looking Easterners slunk from the corners holding assault rifles and crude swords. From atop the storage containers, the hulking sentries began activating their rail cannons, slow firing weapons that packed enough of a punch to cripple an armored vehicle. Atop the balcony, the gas-masked man oversaw the proceedings like a parade grandmaster as he was flanked by what looked like a large terracotta golem._

 _Ines kept her rifle up as she stole a whisper to Wolfgang. "Shall we surrender?"_

" _Go ahead, Frenchie," Wolfgang replied as he assessed their surroundings. Assets deployed: A dozen Panzerwolf heavy infantry, a French Marquis insurgent, an ex-Triunifyte inquisitor, and a howling Mag-Jarl. The ghoul assassin appeared to be MIA, thankfully. Opposing them: a lot more from what they could see and who knew what else hiding in the shadows. This was never going to be an easy mission in the first place._

" _MEN! OPEN FIRE!"_


	12. Cold War Climax

Chapter 12: Cold War Climax

As the sun finally ebbed below the horizon, Eddie ordered no light to shine within the camp. He already knew that Hex had already zeroed in on their position, but he wanted to exploit any tactical advantage he could provide. With his fighters lined up and covering one another, he wanted to be able to cut down any attackers under an unrelenting crossfire. Desmond approved of the strategy, he'd witnessed more than a few SAS teams utilize similar tactics in the Middle East.

Ariel was managing the outlaws on a more personal level. It was clear that everyone in the gang respected Eddie, but more often than not Ariel was considered a friend. The outlaws trusted her when she said not to run, that she would watch their backs and make sure they wouldn't go down without a fight. Desmond was even willing to part with his last cigarette, seeing as Ariel needed something to soothe her own stress as she tended to everyone else.

Vana kept to herself. She checked the firing lines, still trying to find the one that satisfied her. Either the flanks left her vulnerable or she didn't trust those who stood beside her. She never spoke aloud of this, confiding in no one and remaining close to Desmond. He realized that Vana was resenting her lackluster odds of survival, and did not want to risk furthering her odds by antagonizing any of her nominal allies.

Sybil hadn't been seen in hours. The outlaws paid it no mind, and the raiders didn't dwell on it. This was typical behavior for her, apparently. She would always return when she wanted to or was absolutely needed, but always on her terms. No one had realized she had quietly escaped.

It was over an hour after the last ray of sunlight vanished from the wasteland that a new source would take its place. Southeast of the camp, spotlights shone upon a grim totem. A detached telephone pole, carried by the cult like its own Ark of the Covenant, rested on its liter. Upon it, crucified, was the corpse of an armored super mutant, scorched and weatherworn, but the likeness could not be mistaken. Eddie had used to read Ariel stories when she was a child about the worst monster to plague California, butchering wastelanders by the score in an unstoppable frenzy of hatred. His corpse was thought lost to time and legend, so if these rumors were in fact true, it would seem that the title "El Hijo de Horrigan" may be more than a cult's wishful thinking.

A dark silhouette blanketed the glow of the spotlights ominously. The figure took up what looked like a megaphone. He brought it to his lips and began his sermon.

"My friends, do not despair. I come bearing great tidings. No longer will you suffer and struggle fruitlessly, needlessly. No longer will you fear the coming annihilation of all that was meant for the doom. No longer shall humanity commit itself to the cycle of decay and rot that we call instinct. I have come to liberate you all.

However, I understand that not all find my methods… agreeable. So, I come with a bargain. Those who wish to continue their lives can do so after being dedicated to my teachings. The price, putting those who refuse to the sword and joining my brethren. You shall survive, and I shall mold you into humanities final message. Well, what say you?"

Hex waited patiently. Normally, he would hear lamentations or threats upon making his offer. Every so often, however, the scared and desperate would take him up on it, cutting down their friends and families in a misguided but understandable attempt at survival. It would be Hex's duty, afterward, to "enlighten" those who joined his cause as to its true nature.

A shot rang out as his megaphone disintegrated in his hand. Eying his prey, he heard the familiar chorus of threats and taunts fill the air. He sighed, disappointed, but only just. What his targets lacked in potential recruits, they made up for with opportune adversaries, testing his mettle. As a disciple of the Grim Reaper, such undertakings were to be considered blessings. He let out a war howl, and his disciples began to close the distance.

 _Ines' battle rifle spat out several more rounds. Two of the easterners dropped as the rest fell back. She heard the sound of a body skewered behind her, turning to see Mustafa letting the corpse fall from his saber. They had already been flanked. This wasn't a tenable position, but the Panzerwolves needed someone to hold off reinforcements while they fended off the lumbering mutants._

 _A large weight slammed against one of the shipping containers. Haldor roared in defiance as he once again brought his ax down onto the golem. Once again, the blade chipped, and the golem tackled the Mag-Jarl as their brawl continued. At a glance, it seemed like a fair fight, but none of Haldor's attacks seemed to even scratch the stone warrior._

" _How many?" Mustafa asked as he leaned against the wall to catch his breath._

" _Fifteen," Ines answered._

 _Mustafa gaped. "You'd think for bloodthirsty killers, these raiders would be better fighters?"_

" _Perhaps we just do not give them the opportunity?" Ines replied. The two of them were remorseless killers both, and had cut their teeth on those who could fight back, which possibly gave them the edge over these eastern thugs. Then again, Mustafa was professional and never reveled in taking another's life, whereas Ines usually only felt satisfaction. Perhaps that was the edge they carried over their enemies after all this time?_

" _BEHIND YOU!"_

 _Instinctively, Ines rolled herself prone, firing off several more rounds. Mustafa got on his knee beside her and joined with his carbine, and with their combined firepower brought down three more of the eastern raiders. Mustafa looked out of the corner of his eye, upon the shipping container, and saw the gas-masked figure applauding in delight_

 _From around the corner, another raider began screaming and howling at the gas-masked figure. Mr. Gasmask, on his part, merely looked around before skeptically pointing to himself in confusion. The raider in question, a man with more ink on his face than skin, turned the corner and kept his rifle up, pointed not towards the two on the ground but the one on top of the container. Mr. Gasmask disembarked from his former position, approaching the raider with his hands outstretched apologetically._

 _As the sounds of fighting continued, Ines and Mustafa stood transfixed at the sight before them. The raider screamed at Mr. Gasmask while Mr. Gasmask tried to placate the easterner in his own language. The raider pulled up his gun towards Mr. Gasmask's stomach, threatening to pull the trigger and empty his magazine into his guts. Mr. Gasmask leaned into his face and said something short and simple to the raider. The raider responded by making good on his threat. As Mr. Gasmask doubled over, the raider promptly disregarded his weapon as he pulled out his knife and ordered his men to overwhelm the two defenders. Having lain in wait long enough, his men sprung into action. Mustafa and Ines fought as valiantly as they could, but the coordinated trap this gang leader had prepared for them overwhelmed them. It didn't take long until they were both restrained and on their knees in front of the tattooed killer._

 _Hwang Po, revered captain of the Shanghai Triad Pirates, and proud subordinate of the Mountain King himself had grown weary of the casual derangement of his master's associate and his callous disregard for their lives, Po took it upon himself to remedy the situation as he saw fit. Surely, they had enough men yet to take over the facility themselves, loot everything of value, and burn the rest to the ground. They were pirates, after all._

 _He looked down at his two captives. Normally, the standard procedure involved killing the men who resisted while taking and selling the women. This one, however, didn't look like she would be quick or easy to break, and time was of the utmost essence. Fine, time to slit both of their throats and help the Mountain King kill the rest of the intruders. This was the final thought that crept through his mind as a set of claws tore the flesh from his face down through the bone as the other hand snapped his neck around behind him. With his remaining working eye, Po looked into the emptiness of Mr. Gasmask before succumbing to his death._

 _Wasting little time, Mr. Gasmask held out his wrists, the two nozzles emerging from behind his palms to spray out an ominous looking concoction. It caught Ines and Mustafa's captors by surprise, as did the results of having flesh boil from their bones. As the other pirates prepared to respond, Mr. Gasmask stared each and every one of them down until they all abandoned any notion of heroism or vengeance. Satisfied, Mr. Gasmask bent down towards his two guests. "…Judging by our mutual association with Mr. Lockheart as well as taking my warning seriously, am I to assume you two are familiar with English?"_

 _Ines said nothing though Mustafa managed a nod._

" _Excellent. The Triad Pirates are rather disposable enough as is. Tseng will have no issue whatsoever replacing anyone he loses here. But two western Europeans? This isn't an everyday occurrence. You two are not disposable." He took a deep bow. "My name is Aleksandr Markovich, and I am pleased to make your acquaintances!"_

"PICK YOUR SHOTS, PEOPLE!" Eddie screamed over the gunfire. The skirmish had begun with a massive horde of feral ghouls charging towards the camp. Hex had mastered the art of "domesticating" feral ghouls into loyal and selfless attack dogs; only these were able to carry simple weapons and torches. The firing line was able to drop plenty of the latter, but by then the fallen torches had essentially lit a pathway straight to their position. By now, the attacking ghouls were flooding over the simple barricades they had constructed.

As Eddie held down the most pressured barricade, Ariel and the Young Guns darted from line to line, assisting and relieving those who needed to withdraw to rearm or patch their injuries. In the midst of all this chaos, Ariel's reputation as the best gunslinger in the Ximenez gang made itself apparent, her speed and accuracy managing to cut down the attacking ghouls even faster than the automatic weapons. With her bodyguards, they could create a continuous rate of withering fire that added ever more corpses and wounded bodies to the outside of the barricade.

A ghoul tackled Vana, pinning her to the ground as its jaws snapped for her neck. She pulled out a knife, severing its jawline before plunging it into its neck. It was a rough action, but her nerves were beginning to overwhelm her. She noted she was starting to panic, her typically precise and measured actions giving way to improvised desperation. All matters of her previous experiences with adversity had usually resolved itself at this time, but these enemies showed no signs of stopping.

Sybil sat on a bluff overlooking the cacophony. With the number of bodies down there, even she would have trouble focusing her efforts in a decisive manner. Perhaps she could enter a few dozen of the ferals minds, they were simple enough as they were, but doing so would leave her more vulnerable than she was willing to subject her safety. No, she had other obligations to consider. And other methods of helping.

Desmond, tired of being congested with the others, took it upon himself to stop acting like a sardine and take the fight to the enemy. As the sole ghoul of the defenders, he strode from the barricades, his suit and demeanor enough to differentiate himself from the oncoming horde. Little known but highly exploitable fact; feral ghouls did not attack other ghouls, regardless of sentience. As far as they were concerned, Desmond was just another one of the pack that just happened to be walking in the wrong direction. As much as playing cowboy sounded amusing, Desmond was keen on locating the head of the beast and decapitating it.

 _Aleksandr Markovich was not an imposing figure. Just barely inching under one and three-quarter meters, the man standing before them looked like someone wearing a Halloween costume he found in a military surplus store. May as well have been, judging from all the stories they had heard from the border of the Grave Tempest. Markovich had come to be known by many names. The Strigoi Boyar. The Master of Witches. The Father of Monsters. Satan, or at least his twisted left hand to those feeling poetic._

" _Are the two of you comfortable? Can I get you anything? Drink? I'm afraid all I have is tea and vodka," Markovich explained, apologetically._

 _The sight came off as rather surreal with the sounds of battle in the background and the pirates eying them anxiously._

"… _No thank you," Mustafa declined._

" _And you, mademoiselle?" Markovich asked._

"… _You realize we came to kill you, right?" Ines replied, flatly._

" _I'm well aware, and you've both done such a wonderful job. No one has come this close in the last ninety years!" Markovich laughed._

 _One of the nearby steel pillars buckled as Haldor slammed the Mountain King into a pylon. No worse for wear, the Mountain King tackled the berserker and began pummeling him into the concrete. Elsewhere, Buchner caught a railgun blast that left his remains stuck inside a crater against the wall. Wolfgang killed the aggressor by unsheathing his zweihandler and bisecting the culprit._

" _So, Desmond was a rather hard nut to crack. He remains rather tight-lipped, even though he knows full well what I can do. However, I am willing to part with him and give the three of you specifically safe passage if you are willing to come to an agreement?"_

 _Ines swore at him. Markovich eyed her from behind his impassive mask. "…Marquis, I presume? Noble work. I prefer the robber barons, though. They keep things ordered without complication. I don't think it will take long until your gang realizes it and starts being rather selective with its liberty and equality. Now, I have a question I'm wondering if you can answer, Miss…?"_

 _Ines said nothing. Before her stood every tyrant she had sworn to defy. If this man was dangerous enough to force her into camaraderie with the Panzerwolves, then he would receive no reply from her._

"… _How much pressure can the human skull withstand before collapsing in on itself?"_

 _Before Ines could respond, Markovich's foot shot forward and pinned her head against the cargo container. Ines struggled, fruitlessly, to pry herself free from the iron vice. Mustafa's vision darted between Ines and Markovich, who in turn stared down towards the ex-Inquisitor._

" _Now, are you going to be more reasonable?" Markovich asked, trying to sound amicable._

* * *

 _Jiasheng made his way through the corridors decisively. Xixi followed close behind, trying to make sure their self-proclaimed leader did not cut himself off from the rest of the group again. Desmond followed her in turn, always glancing back at the relaxed and nonchalant pace of the yogi._

" _Don't mind him," Jiasheng scoffed. "Always does things on his own time and for his own reasons. You get used to it after a while."_

" _I might not be planning to stick around that long," Desmond groused in response._

" _Planning on escaping on your own? Might not be a good idea with the Mountain King's army here alongside these northern devils," Xixi asked._

" _No, some of my allies seem to have come all the way here to keep me out of Markovich's hands."_

" _Keep you out of… not save?" Xixi asked._

 _Desmond chuckled. She was bright, or at least paid attention. "Their boss might be a tad flexible on what the objective was. Liberating myself, or at least in part thanks to your fine company, might dissuade some… alternative readings."_

" _They don't sound so friendly," Jiasheng spoke as he turned to another dead end. "Maybe we should avoid them and just focus on looking for… RUMALI!" he snapped as he turned to the yogi. "WHY ARE WE EVEN HERE?!"_

" _Providence, my friend!" Rumali called out. "Fate and destiny are one and the same! We did not arrive here to find someone, we came to reunite!"_

 _Desmond, Jiasheng, and Xixi shot each other looks. "…Is he always like this?" Desmond asked._

" _Nah, he's more direct than usual," Xixi shrugged._

" _Rumali," Jiasheng began, politely. "…With the exception of the Mountain King, no one we have ever met has come this far north. We know no one here. So it is impossible for us to "reunite" with anyone."_

" _Not so!" Rumali held out a finger. "As my vision has become clear, I understand the nuances that had been so hazy. We did not come to locate, we came to wait."_

" _Wait for what?" Xixi groaned. "We followed the Mountain King, so it doesn't make sense to wait on him. If we aren't here for him or this ghoul, what are we looking for?"_

"… _I think it would be more accurate to say they will be looking for us," Rumali stated, flatly._

 _Desmond ran his hand down his face. "I'm sorry, I appreciate the universal translator or what have you, but can someone do me a courtesy and fill me in on what I'm missing?"_

 _He turned to look at his two other companions and noticed that Xixi's complexion had suddenly become paler. Jiasheng looked at her, then towards Rumali. Lips pursed together, he slowly approached the yogi, shoving him against the wall._

"… _How long?" Jiasheng gritted._

"… _Since the Himalayas," Rumali confessed. "…We promised we'd remove them and I kept our promise. The beasts no longer ravish the monasteries."_

" _So they could just follow us?!" Jiasheng growled, tightening his grip on the sheet around Rumali's shoulder._

" _I didn't just want to release them to menace another community. I wanted to wait until we had the best possible location before we "cut them loose." Besides, what better habitat for those unfortunate souls than a factory that creates monsters? They'll never go hungry!"_

" _Not the point!" Jiasheng seethed._

" _Wait, can we help the newcomer get up to speed?" Desmond complained. "What's coming our way?"_

"PRAISE BE TO HEX" the priest cried as he brought his ax down upon Desmond, blocking it with his shotgun. Desmond caught a glance at the priest's equipment, giving him the Vauxhall ocular pat-down. He wore body armor over his vestments, a scattering amount of tactical gear on his legs and waist. His face was covered in what he originally thought was tattoos, but to Desmond's surprise were merely regular scars.

"I WELCOME THE FINAL JUDGEMENT!" the priest called out as he drew his ax back to strike again. Desmond threw a well-placed kick into the man's knee. As he fell, Desmond used the man's forward momentum to collide with the stock of his shotgun. As his broken face fell backward, Desmond brought his weapon up and fired point-blank.

The image before the priests face vanished would stay with Desmond long after the battle ended. Most raiders, hell, most people confronted by their mortality were usually distraught, surprised, or simply oblivious to what was about to happen. That man, however, seemed delighted that Desmond was ready to take his life. Not exactly relieved or ecstatic, but pleased that a long-awaited event had come to pass.

Disturbed, Desmond looked around the chaos surrounding him. Following intermingled with the charging ghouls; several of these killer priests were making their way towards the firing line. An explosion rocked the barricade, and Desmond could hear over the screaming that Eddie was taking command and getting the gap-sealed to the best of his dwindling ability. He could hear less fire coming from the other side of the barricade, and the priests were beginning to return fire.

Desmond's plan had involved finding and intercepting as many of these leaders as possible, but the few cognizant priests he had managed to deal with seemed to be as disposable as the rest of the ghoul horde.

Soon, the ghouls came to a halt around the agent. Desmond watched, perplexed, as they parted around him, giving him ample personal space. It almost seemed like they were deferring to their fellow ghoul.

"You are a brave one, my child."

Parting his horde like Moses, the undersized super-mutant brushed through his captured audience even as the rest of his army continued to attack the crumbling defenses of Eddie's gang. Before Desmond stood a leather-clad warrior, dressed in rawhide blackened into a charcoal hue. His black luchador-like mask marked by enough white paint to show the outline of a human skull. In both hands, the Padre carried war clubs, both imbued with shrapnel and barbed wire, dragging both on the ground as he approached the separated agent.

"You do not value your life? Or is your sense of obligation so strong you would risk it trying to find me?" Padre Hex grinned through his broken smile.

"Killing you is the fastest way to end this bullshit," Desmond spat. "You're just like every other sanctimonious nihilist looking to justify their killing fetish."

"All the more reason," Padre Hex smiled. "To cast aside humanity and begin anew. It is the least this sickened world deserves. No more raiders, no more slavery, no more monsters like you and me. I, for one, do not hold myself above my teachings. I pray only that my death will lead others to the Promised Land."

"So how about I show you what an apocalypse really looks like!" Desmond snarled, his uncharacteristic bravado delighting his opponent, who clanked his clubs together in response to the challenge.

" _Switzerland?" Markovich repeated. "My-my, has Miss Rictoberg been ever so busy. And how extensive would you say this tunnel network is?"_

" _I don't know, I only overheard what the Panzerwolves mentioned, now please let her go!" Mustafa pleaded._

 _Ines felt the pressure grind her skull deeper against the steel sidings of the container. Markovich's foot felt like it could have previously been a hydraulic press. Though he stopped trying to crush her, the vice kept her head squarely under Markovich's mercy._

" _And with the main forces under her control remaining the Teutonic Reich, that would indicate a significantly hands-off approach towards the BRR, Marquis, and the Triunifytes…" Markovich muttered to himself. "…Which could leave the Nords open to…"_

" _INES!" Mustafa cried out._

" _Who is… Oh, right," Markovich relented, releasing her from his grip. Ines nursed her skull while Mustafa tried to pick her from the ground. "You OK?"_

" _I've had hangovers I'll miss more," Ines admitted._

 _The Triad Pirates surrounded the two as Markovich made to withdraw. "…I told you what you wanted," Mustafa called out._

" _You did, and I shall honor our agreement,_ _ **I**_ _shall not harm you," he emphasized._

" _Hijo de puta," Mustafa swore as he clutched Ines closer to him. The pirates closed in, grinning as they pulled out their knives. At the very minimum, what was about to happen would prove to be very cathartic._

 _Other knives shot out from atop the shipping container, killing a few pirates while crippling others. As Markovich turned in surprise, a dark figure leaped over him while entwining a strand of wire around his neck. Using all his strength, Malocchio got behind Markovich, and with his back turned to him, pulled on the garrote as hard as he could. Markovich struggled and flailed as much as he could, but Malocchio had centuries to perfect his killing arts. Slowly but surely, the wire dug into his neck._

"… _Where the fuck were you?!" Ines exclaimed in exasperation as the pirates fled from having to deal with the newcomer. Malocchio motioned his head towards the rafters in the ceiling. "Typical," Ines muttered as Mustafa strode around to the suffocating Markovich. Grabbing the mask, he pulled it down to reveal just how their target intended to spend the rest of his immortality._

 _It looked like he, like Desmond, had opted to undergo the rad-rot method. Unlike Desmond, wires and streaks of metal strung through his face, indicating that Markovich was also a firm believer of cybernetics, as Desmond had suspected. Mustafa didn't know which part disgusted him more. The chrome teeth, the red ocular portals covering his eyes, or the clear Plexiglas dome that housed his brain._

 _At this moment, the alarms went off, the deafening howl bringing almost all the fighting to a stop. The Panzerwolves still got a few cheap shots in but ceased upon realizing that the sentries not only seemed to forget about the Panzerwolves, but they also seemed to abandon the notion of continuing to fight. Even the Mountain King relented in his pummeling of Haldor to take this development into account. In regimented order, the sentries filed out of the courtyard as sirens and searchlights activated, the announcer over the loudspeaker speaking something that sounded like garbled Russian. The Mountain King barked some of his own orders, and his own men withdrew, following his lead._

 _Markovich, sensing an opportunity, heaved his compact but powerful body's legs forward, flipping Malocchio over his back and into the corrugated wall of a steel container. Panting for breath, Markovich turned towards the three trespassers surrounding him. Rather than continue to fight, Markovich instead began grinning that horrible chrome-toothed smile._

"… _Looks like we'll have to continue this later. Sounds like we'll all soon have bigger fish to fry. In the likely event, we never speak again, do be so kind as to tell Desmond I thank him for Vienna."_

 _With that, Markovich's powerful legs propelled him atop the steel container in a single leap, and the three could only watch helplessly as Markovich put an impossible amount of distance between them in such a small amount of time._

" _Status report!" Wolfgang ordered. Of the dozen or so Panzerwolves who had entered, roughly seven were still standing. Three fatalities, two wounded. Haldor was picking himself off the ground, cursing and muttering that he had the Mountain King right where he wanted him. The three came around the corner, bruised looking and defeated._

" _You made contact with the target?" Wolfgang asked. Malocchio held his thumb and index finger a portion of a millimeter from one another. "Of course you were," Wolfgang huffed. "We still got to find Desmond and get out before… whatever the hell's coming gets here."_

* * *

 _Just beyond the gates, in the forest of great dead firs, the howls grew louder. The beasts reared their heads above the floral carcasses as they witnessed the factory. They howled in anger, remembering the torment this building represented. This was their cradle and prison, where they were born to suffer, abandoned for reasons they could never understand. Now they were bigger and stronger, and far angrier than before._

 _The song continued its intoxicating rhythm. The monsters would rip this abattoir apart brick by brick if it meant finding the only one who could ever soothe their pain. They would rend apart every living creature within, as was their purpose and design. As the beasts trampled down the trees separating them from their quarry, the sentries outside panicked and fled to within the walls. The monsters all reared their heads back, all-reaching for that burning within their cores. The acid blasts ignited the outer warehouse of the facility down to the molecule, boiling away the defenders within. All eight of the monsters got on their fours and galloped into the facility. The demons of Scholomance had returned._

"INCOMING!" Ariel screamed as the figure was hurled into the encampment. The fall was broken by two raiders and an outlaw. Desmond picked himself up, panting for breath as he tried not to agitate his ribs, spine, or head. Vana swung by him, looking over the wounded ghoul. "…Get ready for the apocalypse," Gaunt wheezed out. "I can't believe I said that."

Padre Hex made it to the wall. Leaping onto the defenders, he began making quick work of the firing line. Despite wielding little more than clubs, his blows hit with the force of a pneumatic gauntlet, disintegrating bone with every hit. Ariel looked to her bodyguards. The fastest guns had the best chance, they figured. They made their way towards Hex, preparing to unleash the last of their ammo in a desperate gamble to end this fight.

"PRAISE BE TO HEX!" a priest screamed. This one, however, wasn't wearing armor like the rest of his kin. This one was strapped down with several pounds of C4. He vaulted over the opening Hex had created, and immediately his eyes fell towards the tent where the wounded were gathered. Raising his remote above his head, he let out a cry as he prepared to liberate them of their suffering.

Eddie, however, was prepared. Blasting him in the stomach with a shotgun, he immediately went to wrestle the remote out of the priest's hands. As the two struggled, Vana glanced around her. The firing lines were all breached. Outlaw and raider alike were both getting cut down as the ghouls swarmed over the defenses. This was a dead-end for everyone within.

No. She wasn't going to die in Baltimore. She wasn't going to die in D.C. Not in New Orleans. Not in Texas. Not here. Not while she had so much work to do. She took her pistol, pointed it towards the priest. Towards Eddie. Towards the remote. She fired. On a lonely bluff overlooking the carnage, a single tear fell from Sybil's face.


	13. Cold War Conclusion

Chapter 13: Cold War Conclusion

 _As buildings near the perimeter erupted in flames, and with each accompanying victorious howl, Tseng climbed each rung of the ladder up the security elevator. His pressure and weight seemed to dislodge the stairway up the ladder with each grip and foothold, but neither Tseng nor Markovich were afraid of the long way down. The latter of which had already made his way to the security room on top of the tower, and was already hard at work directing his remaining forces, ordering most to fall back while a few were to be sacrificed holding the monsters at bay. His men were largely falling back to the trucks._

 _As he swung into the security control chamber, he saw Markovich at the console, watching what seemed to be dozens of monitors, divided between security footage and various readings. With the former, every few seconds or so the camera would suddenly show static. Tseng figured that the monsters were converging towards the center of the facility, destroying everything in their path with reckless abandon. Markovich finally found a moment to turn to his associate as he implemented some commands into the console._

" _I am about to activate the Tesla Towers. It should buy us some time, but make no mistake, it shall not hold them back forever," Markovich relented._

" _A hallmark of your craftsmanship," Tseng replied. "You've a knack for making unstoppable monsters. They are your children, after all."_

" _They aren't my children!" Markovich spat. "They're failures! All the power in the world, and not an ounce of control? Worse than useless! I'd hoped the least they could do was be pointed in the direction of my enemies, but apparently, even that was too much to ask for!"_

 _Every creature Markovich, in his considerable ability, had created was done with a purpose. Even the botchlings served as deterrents and saboteurs in the proper conditions. His hulking sentries, remnants of his free usage of the penal battalions under his command, were by far his most essential and productive successes, forming the backbone of every military operation he commanded since he declared his independence from the Kremlin. But these animals? Every attempt at control and conditioning failed or couldn't last meaningfully._

 _He watched through one of his surviving monitors as the Tesla Towers began to activate, creating a shield of arching lightning to protect sections of his base. One of the beasts was tagged as it approached, the electricity surging through its body as it howled and stumbled back. As more creatures converged on it, Markovich spat and swore as they prepared to unleash that potent chemical attack._

" _My own defenses may not be up to task. Tseng, I hate to ask this of you, but…"_

 _Tseng sighed as he went for the doorway. "Some things don't change, do they?"_

" _A daunting task, I know, but your skills and abilities should make it quite feasible. At the very least, you won't be edible. I'm also afraid my present for you will have to wait until I get resituated and reestablish my projects and defenses. I'm sorry this didn't work out, my friend."_

" _Save it. Least this day can do for me is provide a fight worth having. If my men have any sense, they'll fall back and await my arrival. Killing these things will be a tall order, but I believe with the right strategy, I can manage."_

"… _I would advise against that," Markovich warned._

" _What, you don't want me to kill them, now?" Tseng asked._

"… _I'd rather you not be caught in the crossfire," Markovich admitted. "Nothing I have on base will be enough to kill these creatures, but once I get in contact with Olga and…"_

" _Say no more," Tseng turned away. "Russia is your hellhole. Yours and hers. You two work together and link up with me once you control your continent. I'll conquer mine my way."_

" _I'd expect nothing less, Emperor Tseng!" Markovich grinned. Tseng shot a glare at him. "… Mountain King Tseng, my apologies."_

 _As Tseng leaped from the tower, onto the muzzle of a beast waiting below and beginning his assault, Markovich breathed a sigh of relief as he finally established contact with his most trusted subordinate._

" _Father, what is your status and position?"_

" _Olga, how soon can Zmei reach my position?"_

" _ETA thirty minutes. Risk of total facility destruction 70%. Loss of research and development imminent. 49% likelihood of irretrievable data loss."_

" _Not to worry," Markovich stated, tapping on his briefcase. "I've located the most vital information and have it with me. Have one of your girls meet me upon my escape."_

" _Requesting information on method of escaping."_

" _Give me a moment, daughter?" Markovich pleaded. "…I think I'll catch a ride."_

 _Once Markovich left the security room, he looked down to see Tseng gripping one of the monsters by the antlers. It swung its head around fruitlessly, only succeeding in slamming its body into the base of Markovich's tower. With his powerful legs, Markovich stormed down the collapsing structure, leaping off and getting clear from the debris before everything managed to hit the ground._

* * *

 _Sergeant Wolfgang supervised the evacuation of the warehouse as the roars of the beasts seemed preoccupied elsewhere. He breathed a sigh of relief, seeing his evacuation had concluded without a hitch. His radioman got off the line with their extraction team, stepping in front of the leader as he relayed the updated orders. "Sir, our retrieval team has spotted an oncoming storm approaching the facility."_

 _Haldor overheard this and shuddered. In all their days spent in subzero temperatures, this was the first time any of them had seen him do such. "Ill omens," he muttered. "We must leave as soon as possible. Dangerous beasts have already arrived. Worse is still to come."_

 _The temperature had already dropped to thirty Celsius below and the last thing Wolfgang needed was even more inclement weather slowing down and subjecting his squad to even more risk. He glanced over the darkened horizon, the only landmark that stuck out to him was a tall silo set just at the edge of the facility, looking every bit the only defensible position he had available. "Men, head over to that silo and secure it until the extraction team arrives. Anything that isn't part of this operation shall either be turned back or shot down."_

" _Wolfgang, what about Desmond?" Ines asked._

" _Looks like he'll be dead soon enough," Wolfgang replied, tersely._

" _We still have the chance to locate and verify!" Ines pressed. "Or would you rather risk leaving him to Markovich?_

 _Wolfgang snarled. "GUNTER!" he growled. "Take a squad and commit a quick sweep. Document anything you deem suspicious and return before the carrier arrives!" The soldier in question took with him two equally disgruntled partners and broke from the group as the rest headed towards the tower._

 _Before they all left, Ines shot a look at Mustafa. He returned the look, but refused elaboration, looking spent. She turned to Malocchio, who seemed to flat out ignore her. Ines sighed. She knew the odds were against her, and chances were she'd sooner be left behind than actually locate Lockheart. But she knew how most of the krauts operated. Entrusting Desmond's safety to these amoral mercenaries was essentially a death sentence._

 _As she turned back to head after the breakaway party, she had only just realized that Malocchio had once again vanished._

* * *

 _While most of Tseng's men had followed their orders and retreated to the trucks, some had refused to return home empty-handed. With the sentries distracted and the Mountain King handling other matters, some of the pirates had taken to looting a warehouse in the center of the facility. Guns were the most sought after prizes, followed by canned rations and explosives. As tempting as the Mountain King's ally's experiments were, tampering wasn't deemed to be a wise course of action._

 _As three pirates broke open another crate, this one filled with magazines of ammunition, a growl down the hallway reached their ears. Peeking their heads up, they saw a mass of black and white fur hurtling towards them. Its mouth open, drool seeping between the mass of fangs. The pirates all thought the same thing._

" _GREATER PANDA!" they screamed, dropping their loot as they fled past their brethren from the warehouse. Their companions all looked towards the dark hallway. One of them caught an arrow under their chin as a man dove from the darkness behind a box, his pistol drawn._

 _Jiasheng had gotten so used to dispatching these hulking sentries that he had almost learned to miss fighting the Triad Pirates. Each one was a dangerous killer, but their dependence on numbers gave one room to engage them. A distraction here, an ambush attack there, and these guerilla fighters didn't know the first thing to do when the tables turned on them._

 _Xixi notched another arrow into her bow, looking for anything exposed. These cowards had been a menace to her village since before she could remember. She'd heard countless stories about their atrocities. She'd witnessed it a few times. She thought about all the friends they took from her, all the hopes and lives they ruined. If there was one thing about Jiasheng she appreciated, it was how well he could fight them. Now if only the rest of their marriage was going as well._

 _She found one hiding behind a crate, finding herself unable to get off a shot._

 _A shrill whistle broke out next to her. The man hiding behind the crate couldn't help but poke his head out to at least glimpse at the noise. The arrow drilled through his cranium, the embedded shaft pushing through the length of his skull twice as he fell back to the floor. Desmond chuckled as he and Xixi took up cover. "You'd be surprised how often that works."_

" _It's no illusion, but that even took me by surprise," Xixi admitted. Desmond helped himself to a dropped rifle as Jiasheng darted from cover to cover, his pistol and sword working harmoniously as he ran through the pirates. He was the Emperor's proudest warrior, and though he shared not his name, these craven brigands would know him soon enough._

 _Desmond and Xixi figured that, aside from the occasional potshot they could offer, Jiasheng had the situation handled. They held back as Jiasheng drove through a stack of risers and caught another two pirates flatfooted. Desmond smirked as he counted off his ammo. "He's a lethal son of a bitch, I'll give him that."_

" _Pretty much his only redeeming attribute," Xixi muttered._

" _You two don't seem to get along," Desmond assessed._

" _We get along just fine," Xixi explained as Jiasheng skewered a fleeing pirate. "I just don't see why I have to be bound to him because he killed some of the local cannibals."_

" _You two are married?" Desmond asked. "My condolences."_

" _He could have just been a homebody but no," Xixi welched. "He has to drag me around on this little quest of his."_

" _What is he doing up here, anyway?" Desmond asked._

" _From what he has told me, he is running a bunch of errands for his Emperor," Xixi scoffed. "To gather information about the state of China and make contact with potential allies."_

" _You two are a long way from China, I'm afraid," Desmond replied._

" _You think?" Xixi shivered, not amused. "Only two reasons we came this far north is because Jiasheng wants the honor of killing the Mountain King and because Rumali said we have friends waiting for us up north."_

" _Speaking of, I've noticed we're missing someone," Desmond muttered. Xixi immediately realized what had happened, let out a marvelous string of curses, and promptly shot herself up just in time to plug the remaining fleeing pirate in the back with an arrow._

" _Jiasheng!" Xixi screamed. "Your friend bailed on us again!"_

 _Jiasheng spat on the final corpse, agitation replacing his satisfaction. "Of all the times to meander off from the group… don't worry about him, we've got other concerns. We need to escape before those monsters get here. Head back to the truck. You coming, zombie?"_

 _Desmond thought over that genuinely tempting offer. Perhaps if half of whatever team Melanie had sent to verify him didn't have personal interpretations of that order he'd consider it. Then again, Chinese was a bitch to learn and he didn't know how long the yogi's translator was set. Besides, he knew very well what role he was to play in this game. He couldn't afford to be sent in the wrong direction at this point. Still, it was nice to trust others again. Sometimes he forgot what it felt like. "I might need some time to think about it if that's alright with you?" Desmond shrugged._

" _Well, if I were you," Jiasheng shouted back as he drew his sword from the corpse it had been planted in, "I'd make up my mind quick. Wouldn't want to walk home in this weather, would you?"_

* * *

 _From atop a nearby roof, Markovich watched as the remnants of Lockheart's rescue party overtook the very silo he was heading towards. This development didn't necessarily upset him, merely annoyed. Still, he noted with some grim satisfaction that of all places to have taken refuge, they chose that particular silo. Truly, they would all be in for a pleasant surprise in a short time from now._

 _Despite his situation, he took a moment to rest his frame. Not out of necessity, but he was out of immediate peril, and did not feel like dispatching the party. It would be a waste of energy on his part. He had more important matters to attend to._

 _The loss of Scholomance would be a significant setback on his end, doubtlessly. Still, he had more than a few contingencies for just such events. Upon his successful departure from this facility, it would take some time to reassemble some of his assets and relocate to a more suitable location._

 _Moscow? He didn't want to destroy the city outright. The constant skirmishes with the People's National Union kept his instincts sharp and his resources well trained. Besides, they were the best source of test subjects and manpower in the event he ever ran low, which by now he assuredly had._

 _Norilsk? Thanks to nuclear winter, the arctic was the coldest it had been in thousands of years, even to the point of freezing polar bears solid. Sure in its defense it was the most isolated fortification he had at his disposal, but right now he needed to accelerate his actions, time was against him._

 _Elbrus? He had agreed to give Olga space, but time was of the essence and she would be more than understanding of his circumstances. True, she was rarely ever home, but she was permitted her base and testing site. Then again, even he shuddered at the thought of sharing that wretched place with all the strigoi and yaga she had been developing in his absence. He wondered what she saw in them, it wasn't like her to be attached to her projects after completion. Nor did it seem logical that she would continue her experiments after completing Zmei. Perhaps, he figured, she was once again taking after her mother._

 _Stalingrad? Yes, Stalingrad. Nikita and Boris's hometown. The scavenger kingdom. A strong enough show of force would dislodge most of the residents with little trouble. And the mop-up of the remaining would prove to be most enlightening and entertaining in and of itself. Not to mention the brothers would probably both be delighted to return home._

" _Greetings, my friend!"_

 _Markovich jumped upon hearing the voice of the interloper. He turned to see a man in rags salute him in prayer. "Blessings be upon you, Aleksandr."_

 _Aleksandr extended his claws. "Be off with you. I'm not in the mood to kill, but I still can."_

" _I'm fully aware. But yours is the kind to enjoy suffering more than death. Like a farmer sows wheat, you sow misery."_

" _I seek only to improve, old man. The meek and short-sighted are not of any concern," Aleksandr huffed._

" _You confuse callousness for strength. A wounded little boy who pursues what he believes to be power."_

" _Spare me the psychoanalysis," Markovich spat. "I've heard it before."_

" _I can see your heart is immovable," Rumali replied, sadly. "Your contempt for your fellow man doesn't surprise me. Rather, people like you are all too common these days. You, Tseng, Rictoberg, Horrigan…"_

" _Who?" Markovich asked, confused._

" _Another of your contemporaries," Rumali stated. "Another monster to curse and abuse the helpless. Mark my words, Aleksandr, from where you stand, doom is inevitable."_

" _Wretched swami," Aleksandr growled, raising his acidic nozzle towards the sage. "I've grown sick of your metaphors."_

" _What metaphor?" Rumali asked as he pointed behind him. Aleksandr turned just in time to see the massive paw swing down. He leaped out of the way, avoiding the blow with no space to spare. As his instincts took over, Markovich's rational mind screamed as to how impossible it was for such a large creature to sneak upon him. Rumali looked away, innocently._

 _As Markovich fled down the building, the beast prepared to pursue. Before doing so, it stole a glance at the strange man who remained._

" _I would advise against vengeance, my friend," the man said as the beast's tri-tipped tongue hung from its mouth. "Markovich is not yours to fell, however deserving he may be by your hand. Rather, I ask that you come with me and find some measure of peace. It is my duty and calling, after all, and to alleviate suffering such as yours would cause me no end of delight. First, could you tell me your name?"_

 _The beast reared its head back and let out a howl in front of the yogi, so strong was the air that Rumali's turban threatened to come undone along with his lower cloth even as the man himself remained motionless and still. Ears still ringing, Rumali looked up to the beast as it turned to wander off. "I heard Alyosha. Would you rather I call you another?"_

* * *

 _Upon reaching the western silo, Wolfgang immediately ordered his men to take up firing positions upon the stairway wrapping around the building. It wouldn't be defensible for long, but now it had all come down to a matter of buying enough time for the extraction vehicles to arrive. Upon the top of the building, Ines and Mustafa tried to implement some kind of reconnaissance. The rest of the Panzerwolves, on the other hand, were busy fending off any sentry or pirate that happened to poke their heads towards their general direction._

" _That storm heading our way disturbs me," Mustafa confessed. He watched as the black mass of clouds began to creep over the mountain range as it approached. Everything about its movement seemed deliberated._

" _I see them!" Ines announced, looking at the faint flashes of lights as the armored vehicles made their approach._

" _Fantastic," Mustafa breathed. "This day has been a disaster. Bad enough we couldn't find Desmond, now everyone who survives leaves with nothing."_

 _Ines said nothing. She had sworn that they would find Desmond and still meant it. Malocchio was many things, none of which she liked, but he was far and away the most reliable asset they still had. The best person to find Desmond with the clock counting down, whether she liked it or not._

"… _Are you ok?" Mustafa asked._

" _I'm fine. It's Desmond I'm worried about," Ines replied._

" _That's not what I'm talking about. He was putting a lot of pressure on you back there," Mustafa explained. "You feeling OK?"_

 _Ines still had a splitting headache. Markovich had her at his nonexistent mercy. She had been fully convinced during that ordeal that she was about to die. "I'm fine."_

 _Haldor climbed his way to the top of the silo. He glanced at the two weaklings before turning towards the approaching storm. He looked towards Ines. "Where are the vehicles?"_

" _About ten minutes out," Ines relayed._

 _Haldor's lip curled. "We mustn't delay. When that storm reaches us, nothing caught unprepared will survive."_

" _Must be quite the cold snap to scare even you," Mustafa spoke._

 _Haldor sneered down at him. "People who fear frost aren't worth the supplies they squander to survive. My war band had made many expeditions to the far north. We know these wastes. We know when to fear." He pointed towards the storm. "That right there is what remains of the tangled corpses of Jormungandr and Thor."_

" _Pardon?" "What?" Ines and Mustafa asked, simultaneously._

" _That storm has existed since my first raid eighty years ago," Haldor explained. "I've known many raider captains and champions who failed to heed its danger and have fallen to the icy wastes. Even I, in my younger and more reckless days, sought to challenge that storm in my way. I learned a lesson instead." He turned towards the former inquisitor. "Man is man. God is God."_

"… _Haldor," Mustafa began. "…What is coming?"_

* * *

 _Desmond's group weaved through the alleyways as roars and crashes began to draw closer. Desmond was wondering if he shouldn't just break from the group and make one last attempt at contact himself. Jiasheng hoped that the hotwired cargo truck had enough juice to at least escape from the facility. The last thing they needed to do right now was locate fuel. Xixi kept her head on a swivel, looking around for ambush points and uninvited guests. It saved their lives._

 _Xixi tackled Jiasheng to the ground as bullets peppered the wall behind them. Desmond, however, immediately recognized the sound, turning to face the three armored soldiers waiting in ambush behind a corner. "Quite the itchy trigger fingers you have, Jerry."_

 _The three armored soldiers fanned out, surrounding the allies of convenience, weapons trained in front of them. "Hello, Desmond," Werner spoke, gun pointed at Desmond's chest._

" _Jerry, I'm flattered, truly, but I believe your boss won't appreciate taking liberties on one of his_ _boss's most valued assets."_

" _Did you rat?" Werner asked. "Did you tell Markovich anything at all?"_

 _Desmond tried not to roll his eyes. "Jerry, I'm a professional. It'll take more than a week of half-assed interrogation to make me leak anything."_

"… _And who the hell are these?" Werner asked as the two got back on their feet. Jiasheng noticed the guns pointed at him, and instinctively tried to shield Xixi._

" _Allies. They hate Markovich's friends as much as we do. They're good," Desmond tried to placate._

 _Werner trained his weapon towards the two, as well. "They're also witnesses. We don't want any more loose ends, do we?"_

" _For the Queen's sake, Jerry, they're not part of the game!" Desmond retaliated._

 _Without Rumali, Jiasheng and Xixi had no idea what the Germans were saying, but body language and tone of voice inferred just enough. Jiasheng gave Xixi a look. Xixi tried to covertly reach into her pouch. She always excelled at sleight of hand, but the stress of the situation, combined with her inability to read the expressions of the masked soldiers, risked compromising her plan and putting everyone in danger._

" _Chert! Chert! Chert! Chert!" the voice said as the body wheeled around the corner. The man glanced at the six as he almost came to a halt. "Chertovski der'mo!" Markovich howled as he barreled through the firing line. The six watched as the devil incarnate leaped up to a fire escape, jumping up and through the rungs and stairs as he kept glancing to the direction from where he came._

 _The monster followed shortly afterward. The narrow pathway forced the monster onto all fours, pushing itself through the enforced buildings as it panted and sniffed for its quarry, its body dragging its gargantuan mass and weight with only hate and instinct propelling it. The Panzerwolves, in response, proceeded to do what they had been trained to do while Desmond's party did the sensible thing. As they bolted from the scene, Desmond turned back to watch as the giant Krampus-demon brought down its mitt upon one of the soldiers, smashed another against the side of a wall, and finally extended out its tongue to envelope and swallow the leader._

" _Oh, Desmond, a pleasure to see you again!" Markovich announced at the top of the warehouse beside them. "I'm afraid I must be off. I have the rest of your entourage to murder. Still, I hope I shall leave you with this wretched beast to entertain you! And when it sends you to Hell, tell your former team Aleksandr said hello!" the man laughed. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, because that was the precise moment Malocchio dropkicked Aleksandr off the five-story roof. The beast below didn't allow him to pass two, extending its neck and snatching Markovich before he hit the ground._

 _As the Russian cyborg fought desperately to avoid being swallowed, holding onto the monster's tusks for his damned life, Malocchio slid through the fire escape, landing in front of Desmond and his party. "Never thought I'd see the day I'd be glad to see you," Desmond groused as Malocchio joined them in fleeing the scene, the monsters preoccupied with their struggle. Jiasheng and Xixi were both familiar with sufferers of the invisible poison, with people like Desmond. But this new guy looked like a corpse, purely and simply, far beyond anyone they had seen at home or abroad. "Jiasheng, who is this man?" Xixi asked._

 _Desmond looked over to her. "A friend, more or less. And if we're very lucky, our way out." Before they all left, Desmond looked back one last time to see Markovich trying desperately to claw his way out of the beast's maw. His mask had fallen into the monster's bowels, and his bright red eyes locked with Desmond's. "…That's for Kavya," Desmond muttered under his lips as he turned and joined the rest of his group._

* * *

 _It began to feel. Cold. Wet. Damp. Vapor entered to and from its lungs as its vision came to it. Dark. Then came the noise. A dull screaming with pops outside its… home. Womb. Egg. It felt everything and comprehended nothing. A surge of electricity coursed down its massive spine, letting out a howl. The screaming and pops outside stopped. Finally, the voice began._

" _Greetings child. Welcome to the world. Welcome to your purpose. I am Mother Olga."_

 _A warm feeling crept through the beast's center._

" _You have been created to serve a great purpose. As merely one of many, you have been tasked with fighting, and winning, a war centuries in the making. That through your blood and pain, the ultimate peace shall finally come to fruition. My children, every last one, all have their duties to serve. But you are to be among my finest champions."_

" _You are an Adversary. You have been tasked with leading the charge against mankind. Against you, humanity shall know no respite, no mercy, and no hope. Together, we shall lay the foundations of a newer, better world. We shall force humanity to realize our truth, our message, and our revelations."_

" _You have been given powers and abilities. You have been given the knowledge of how to harness it. You have been given direction and purpose. These are all my gifts to you. In exchange, I ask that you protect your charge. My father, Aleksandr Markovich. Find him and protect him with everything you have. You know how this must be done. I look forward to seeing you, my child."_

* * *

" _Haldor, what is happening?" Ines asked as the silo began to rumble. From the foundation, cracks began creeping alongside the building. The rumbling forced the Panzerwolves to brace against the railings. Atop the silo, the roof began to crack like an icy pond before the thaw. Ines and Mustafa both dove for the stairway. Haldor wasn't as quick, the beast erupting from the top of the silo in a volcanic manner, vaulting the berserker off the side of the silo._

 _The creature raised its head from its birthing silo. Serpentine in nature, with crocodilian and cetacean features blending, its length above the silo was already a third of the building's height. It's soaking mane illuminated with static electricity as it looked upon the world it had been born into. It could sense some irrelevant mammals attempting to escape from its home. It regarded these beings with indifference, as either prey or threats. Instead, its focus was drawn towards the larger beings currently ransacking the vicinity. They were imposing, but of little relevance for its purpose. Save for one. It was gifted with the top priority of defending Aleksandr Markovich. It knew nothing of the being save that Mother Olga told it to defend him with everything it had. It complied, vaulting itself from the silo, all eighty meters in length, further cracking and destabilizing its old chamber as it did. From its coils, a set of four small fins located just behind its mane began spinning like a plane propeller, driving the beast forward as two larger fins extended from its sides, gliding away from the Panzerwolves as they finally evacuated from the silo._

 _Ines and Mustafa, previously located at the top, had by some miracle managed to escape before the whole silo collapsed. Looking at one another, Ines spoke what the whole party had been thinking. "What just happened?!"_

 _Haldor, having just been able to slow his fall enough by grabbing onto the sides of the railing before dropping to the ground, picked himself up. "That, my comrades, was a balaur. We need to go."_

 _The APCs, drawn to the calamitous destruction of the silo, had finally arrived. Wolfgang shouted over everyone to load up. "We are out of time, get in and get a headcount because we are leaving!"_

" _Hold up, Sergeant!"_

 _Ines turned, looking in delight as she saw Desmond and Malocchio, flanked by two strangers, approaching. Desmond parked himself in front of the CO, saluting as Malocchio escorted the two inside the carrier. "Sorry to keep you waiting, and about your search party."_

" _I was about to ask. What happened to my men?" Wolfgang asked as he led Desmond into the APC, door closing behind them._

" _The same thing that's going to happen to us if we loiter," Desmond explained as he slammed on the wall separating the cabin from the bed. The APC sped off, escaping right before the storm hit the perimeter._

* * *

 _Markovich's legs were currently stuck down the throat of the beast, with the rest of his body slowly but surely following. Markovich clawed desperately around the throat and mouth of the beast, trying to get some kind of a grip. He was confident that the alloys covering his body would preserve him for centuries, but if he was swallowed whole here and now, he could be trapped for centuries. These creatures weren't designed to live, but to kill. He replaced their digestive tracts with a system that could survive purely off radiation. Eating was a formality, just another way to inflict death._

 _As he sank further down, he thought of his allies. Of Boris and Nikita, his lieutenants after so long, his first successes with the Markovich FEV strand. He thought of Tseng, knowing that if anyone were capable of surviving this predicament, it would be the indestructible Mountain King. What he hadn't accounted for was that despite his invulnerability, he still needed air, as Tseng was beginning to discover, as his body was ground under the hoof of one of the monsters, cutting off his oxygen. Finally, he thought of his daughter, his protégé and greatest creation, Olga. When he fell, Olga would take command of Project ADVERSARY, putting her on a collision course with Melanie. Despite his situation, Markovich couldn't help but smile at that._

 _Something struck the monster, forcing it to roar. Markovich, prying himself out of the beast's throat, dug his way to the front of the mouth. As he approached, he saw the giant serpent ram its body into the beast's, costing Markovich his balance as he fell from the maw. He managed, just in time, to grab onto the mane of the serpent as it drew back. Electricity surged through his mechanical body, the specialized insulation he'd transplanted being the only thing preventing his organs from failing. Climbing on top of the serpent's head, he located the chip he'd transplanted into its skull. Pulling himself next to the command node, he began communicating with it. "Rendezvous with Zmei. Disregard all Unit 592s. We'll leave them to Zmei."_

 _Immediately, the balaur did as it was asked, disengaging with its target as it tried to fly into the storm. Its target, however, wasn't done with the balaur, or Markovich for that matter. It grabbed its tail fin, weighing the balaur to the ground. The serpent struggled, shooting bolts of lightning at the mass of blubber and malice keeping it grounded. Nothing worked._

" _Let him go," a familiar voice spoke out. The beast obeyed, releasing the balaur's tail. As the serpent rose towards the maelstrom before it, Markovich turned back to watch as that swami began to perch upon the antlers of his beast. Amazing, he thought. Decades of research on my end and he brings it to heel in an evening. Rumali looked up at Markovich as he soared towards the dark clouds. He considered warning Aleksandr about how his beloved daughter interpreted Project ADVERSARY, and what it was about to mean to him in the immediate future. He decided against it, figuring experiencing such grief first hand would finally teach him some humility._

 _As Rumali and the beast Alyosha sauntered away from the fight, some of the other beasts noticed the serpent rising higher into the sky. Instinctively, most of them reared back and launched their acidic blasts towards the retreating balaur. The serpent weaved and dodged through the streams, Markovich hanging on for his dear wretched life._

 _As the balaur rose towards the looming cloud, flashes of thunder within the maelstrom rumbled and lit the great figure within. Two great red eyes flashed as an unfathomably large bolt of lightning shot out and struck one of the beasts. Its howl died on its lips as its hair was scorched from its body and its flesh burned the creature from the inside. The beast's desiccated corpse fell to the ground as the rest of the pack fled from the predator. Rumali, his body battered by the winds from the storm, tied himself to Alyosha's antlers as said beast broke from the rest of the fleeing pack. The one grinding Tseng into the ground abandoned its prey, leaving Tseng to force himself up to look upon the storm. A fit of smoldering jealousy entered his mind, seeing the power Markovich had at his beck and call. He quelled it, thankful that at the very least, Aleksandr was his ally. Besides, one day he would have his own. When he did, the whole of Asia would be his boon._

* * *

 _As the APCs sped away, Mustafa looked around him. Most of the Panzerwolves, along with Haldor, had entered the other vehicles, leaving this one filled with mostly people he was familiar with. Ines had just about passed out, resting her head on his shoulder. Desmond was already bickering with the two new guys or at least trying to, seeing as it looked like a language barrier had suddenly come up between them. Wolfgang had taken off his helmet, giving his blond handlebar mustache and weary eyes room to breathe as he lit a cigar. Malocchio, as he often did, sat completely still, his mannequin posture always finding some way to unnerve even those who "knew" him best._

 _Mustafa then noticed that the back door of the carrier had metal shutters, offering him a modest window. Out of curiosity, he opened them to see how far they had driven from the facility. Opening them, he saw a thin snake rising above into the storm. From this distance, even that serpent, which had been the largest creature he had ever seen in his life, seemed little more than a speck. Lightning flashed, and Mustafa saw something within the clouds._

 _This shape he saw completely dwarfed the balaur that darted within the clouds, eclipsing it in its entirety. The shape would have been enough to cover at least five of such creatures easily. As he inspected the shape, a realization dawned on him. He had seen that shape before, on the very serpent that they had just witnessed. With horror, he realized that what he was looking at wasn't an entire creature, but a fin. He drew the shutters to a close, and quietly recited every prayer that still comforted him as he remembered Haldor's words. Man is man. God is God._

* * *

The dull ringing filled her ears as she clawed herself to her knees. Griping her weapons, Ariel tried fruitlessly to get herself to her feet. As the vision returned to her, she finally saw the beast before her. Hex whirled around, his clubs extended and tearing through raiders and outlaws alike. She watched as Bronco's head was caved in, followed by one of Sybil's raiders getting crushed under the Hex's foot. Though she couldn't hear, she could see his whooping and hollering, the monster clearly in his element.

Picking up her revolver, she pointed it towards Hex. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed. Turning to look at her, he looked down and grinned as she used the last of her energy to pull the trigger. The weapon clicked uselessly, and fatigue finally brought the proud gunslinger to the ground. Even in her inhibited state, she could hear the roar of triumph coming from the Padre and felt sick knowing what was about to happen. All for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Slowly, she could hear the firing of weapons and screams of dying men around her. Even now, they still fought; at least they had that going for them. She felt the soft impacts coming closer to her, seeing Hex's boots approaching her prone body. At the very least, Hex didn't play with his food. This would be quick. She then heard another set of footsteps approaching Hex, stopping just before him. She heard the dull muttering her ears just barely made out as she slowly slipped back into unconsciousness. Suddenly, a shout broke her out of her stupor. "QUE?!"

Jolted back to the world, Ariel managed to pick her head from the ground to look at the two before her. Hex looked agitated, and the priest he was speaking to looked… worried? Even in her state, Ariel realized how bizarre this was. Every priest in Hex's service was, to the man, a cheerful nihilist. Death didn't faze a single one of them, so if it wasn't that, what could make them so?

Hex, looking towards the horizon, spat out some of the most venomous Spanish Ariel had ever heard. "…Shall we engage?" she finally heard the priest say.

"…No," Hex relented. "I'd love nothing more, but we've already had so many brothers fall. We cannot risk losing the church while so much work remains undone. Sacrifice our feral brothers if we must, but we have to leave before we lose everything."

"Understood," the priest bowed. As the surviving priests left their feral brothers to tie up the resistance and hold off whatever was coming, Hex turned down to look at Ariel as she reached for her knife. "You are persistent, and a worthy fighter. A shame we must delay this meeting, but if fate is kind, we will meet again," and with that, he turned his back to her, retreating with his congregation. A few moments later, she felt two pairs of arms grab her under the shoulders, lifting her from the ground as her bodyguards finally reconnected with her. "We made it, Ace!" Nick replied, still feeling a little numb from the explosion.

Ariel lifted her head towards the horizon. She saw the hundreds of ghouls approaching the newcomers. While some were brought down by firepower, most of the ghouls found themselves in melee with warriors dressed in leather padding, their machetes working around and through the clubs and spears of the feral acolytes. Near the center of the battle lines, she saw chucks of ghoul flung and thrown by what looked like an armored super mutant. Then she saw the banner. A yellow bull superimposed on a red background. _Shit_ , she wearily thought. _I hate dealing with these guys. Guess I'll have to find Eddie and-_

A cold dread flashed through her body. Dropping to her knees, she quickly looked over the bodies of the fallen. Some were familiar, a few were friends, others she had never met, but none of them were of her blood. Then she saw it. The scorch mark upon the ground. She dragged her body towards it. There wasn't anything left. Eddie was gone.

* * *

Desmond was jostled awake by his partner as she shook him back to consciousness. Scuffed and bruised, the normally confident Vana was visibly shaken, actually looking relieved to find that Desmond had managed to survive. Desmond shakily forced himself upright, looking around. They weren't at the camp anymore. Vana dragged his body out of that disaster zone. She did care.

"How'd we do?" Desmond asked.

"We survived," Vana replied.

"I mean, did we win?" Desmond continued.

"We survived," Vana replied, her tone harsher.

"What about the crew?" Desmond asked.

"They served their purpose," Vana stated, flatly. "They got us where we needed to go. With this Hex character out of the way, for the time being, it should be a simple matter of navigating Mexico and keeping a low profile."

"Even so, if we had a few extra guns on hand, that would go a long way to help," Desmond replied.

"We're not going back to that group. Ever," Vana said.

"…What happened?" Desmond asked, feeling his dread exacerbate.

"I had to burn a bridge," Vana answered.

"That's one way of putting it," Sybil interjected as she approached. "And you're welcome by the way. You didn't honestly think you could slip through that fight unnoticed without some help, did you?"

Vana pointed her gun towards Sybil. "What's your angle, freak?"

"I like you two and saw a way to help you escape. I couldn't say the same for everyone down there. Ariel will be inconsolable, but Eddie was doomed the moment he didn't try to save himself."

"You… saw what I was going to do?" Vana stated, not even trying to hide her nervousness.

"Yes… but not really," Sybil explained. "I saw the possibility, among the thousands of others, but wasn't sure if the direness of the situation would drive you to such desperation. The thing about precognition is that you're very hard to surprise," she shrugged.

"I guess I see," Vana relented, keeping her gun trained on her. "So what now? You're going to rat us out?"

"It won't take long for Ariel to piece together what happened. She'll grieve, she'll keep fighting, and she'll almost buckle under the pressure of leading the survivors. She'll want revenge, but her responsibilities shall stay her hand. Fortunately for you. That being said, I shall warn you that if you ever see her again, Ms. Burke, you will die."

Vana snorted. "Not if I manage to kill her first, should it ever come to that."

Sybil said nothing. Vana stared back at her. "…You've seen those possibilities. You must. Surely, you see some kind of way I can get the jump on her? Right?"

"…I'm going to be honest. The best you can hope for, Vana, is a mutual kill. If she ever catches wind of you, your life ends. It's just that simple."

Vana swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to be lying. She could just pull the trigger and paint the desert with that vile brain of hers. "By the way, if you shoot me, she'll know where you are," Sybil taunted. "And if you try to get creative, I'll just lobotomize you remotely." Vana surrendered, holstering her weapon.

"Once again, you are welcome," Sybil continued. "That little piece of fortune-telling was free."

"We're very grateful," Desmond replied as he picked himself up. "We will also be on our way. You interested in coming with us? You also walked out on your own group, after all. They won't be super thrilled with you either."

"No, but I must return to my father. I have to prepare myself for my future husband," Sybil explained as she brushed her skirt.

"Lucky you," Desmond stated as he readied himself to travel south.

"That's one way to put it," Sybil muttered as she looked down the bluff. The Legion had scattered the remains of the ghoul acolytes, finishing off the survivors. Hex and his core priests had already fled. The outlaws and remains of her raiders, already exhausted from their fight, didn't protest as the Legion took control of the camp. Ariel was still perched over the charred crater that was all that remained of her brother, looking inconsolable. Several legion officers looked like they wanted to interrogate her, but the golden warrior brushed them aside. She stared at the warrior, wondering why her right eye suddenly felt sore.

Desmond and Vana took their leave of the psyker. They were short on supplies, having left most of it back at the camp. Neither was afraid of scavenging or living rough, but it was a setback nonetheless. Desmond looked over to Vana. It was disconcerting seeing her like this, losing her confidence. He couldn't imagine if it was either the fight or the prophecy that shook her worse.

"…Thanks for coming for me," Desmond finally said.

Vana looked at him. "…You still have things I need."

Desmond chuckled. "Sure, whatever you say. I appreciate it all the same. Doesn't change the fact that it's nice to have someone watching your back. Trust is… a very precious commodity in our line of work."

"…It's mutual," Vana admitted. "You're… the first person I enjoy working for."

"Now, now, don't get all sappy on me. It's unbecoming of you," Desmond heckled her, albeit gently.

"Maybe you're right," Vana further admitted. "Still, you're probably the closest thing I've had to a… a friend in a long time."

"Cross country trips tend to do that," Desmond replied. "You get so used to someone you can't help but appreciate what they bring to the table."

"That so?" Vana smiled. "I'll have to remember that one. Sounds like an effective, if grueling, recruitment process."

"I guess you can say that," Desmond laughed. "Sounds about right."


	14. Respite

Chapter 14: Respite

 _As the team drove its way back west, radiation storms continued to dog the carriers as they made their trek to the rendezvous. Even though built to endure the harshness of the Grave Tempest, there was only so much abuse the vehicles could endure before sputtering out of commission and leaving the crew and passengers stranded. As such, Wolfgang was forced to make a detour and locate an entryway to the Red Lane Highway._

 _In the decades approaching the Great War, some in the Soviet Union began taking pages out of their allies handbooks about the rules of logistics. Inspired by guerilla tactics, but wishing to expand so to a conventional scale, various government contractors and associates began work on what was originally sold as an ambitious mining project underneath certain Soviet roadways. In practice, it established a system of interconnected bunkers and tunnels through which the Red Army could move men and material to the proposed western theater of war._

 _Whether it had served its purpose or not was lost to history, but as things were now, certain entryways had survived relatively intact during the past two centuries and were still able to shelter those looking to escape the blistering cold and sickening radiation. Still, it presented its own share of risks. Much of the Red Lane Highway remained unsurveyed by even the most dedicated Teutonic deep strike teams. Each location garnered the risk of traps, marauders, creatures, defective engineering, and other hazards. Wolfgang braced himself as he saw his recon team return to the parked carrier outside the entryway, only letting out a sigh of relief once they gave the all-clear gesture. The automatic doorway creaked open just enough to allow the carriers inside. Finally, at long last, they had some measure of respite._

* * *

 _Thus far, all such entryways discovered housed facilities to support a local garrison within the checkpoints of the underground highway. It usually housed dormitory-like quarters, a mess hall, a communications area, and other amenities a military complex could be expected to house. To no one's surprise, the locals had already stripped a lot of raw material and salvage, even raiding the pantries bare. Having brought their own supplies, however, the Panzerwolves were unconcerned. Most of the soldiers found themselves in the mess area, focusing on rations and small talk, with their CO and VIP conversing in the corner._

" _It's been a while since I've seen you salute, Lockheart," Wolfgang stated as he took a drag on his cigar._

" _The alternative would have been embracing you and sobbing," Desmond snarked. "I can't even begin to tell you how relieved I was when I realized you were leading the extraction," he continued, a little more sincere._

 _Wolfgang smiled. "Easy there, we don't want to risk you getting soft on us now."_

" _Seriously, I can count on one hand the number of Melanie's assets I trust to both get me out and keep my team intact, and I'd still have fingers to spare," Desmond sighed in relief._

 _Wolfgang and Desmond's partnership had gone back decades. It started when Desmond led his own extraction within the cursed roads of Albion itself, saving Wolfgang and many other Panzerwolves from enduring ghoulification or worse at the hands of the locals. The favor was repaid with interest when one of Desmond's targets, a Romanian former crime boss with a peculiar mutation, had imprisoned the ghoul in a castle, prompting a battle between Teutonic Reich and the Horde of Dracul. It had been the greatest fight of Wolfgang's life, and Desmond was 97% sure the son of a bitch was dead. From then on, Desmond and Wolfgang had teamed up as the decades continued, facing down everything from raider incursions to uppity clients of their employer. Desmond didn't trust easily, and for the first twenty years or so he hadn't for Wolfgang. Then again, that was sixty years ago._

" _So, are we even, or do I owe you?" Desmond asked._

 _Wolfgang considered the oil tanker incident a favor and believed that Desmond was once again in his debt. It was as he said, he had both rescued Desmond and kept his team intact and unharmed. Considering the circumstances, he was owed favors from the ghoul. Even espionage carried some semblance of honor, as agents feared few things more than accumulating debts to powers their lives depended on._

"… _What the hell were you doing separated from the group, anyway?" Wolfgang asked._

 _Desmond drew out a cigarette, accepted Wolfgang's offered lighter, and took a drag. "…Let's just say Markovich and I have some history. It got personal and I got… arrogant," Desmond exhaled. "I've met him before, you know that? Before the bombs, before the Grave Tempest. Little dweeb was running some Soviet projects the Kremlin would never avow. I've lost quite a few team members to him over the years."_

" _So you went off on your own, hoping to spare your team the risks, and got jumped," Wolfgang completed._

 _Desmond laughed, sheepishly. "For the best, I presume. They wouldn't have survived the encounter or incarceration. Aleksandr's servants are wont to "play with their food," literally in some cases."_

" _Yet he didn't lay a finger on you," Wolfgang noted._

 _Desmond snorted. "More than likely he was cooking up something personal for me. Either preparing a new interrogation technique or developing another lovely creature with which to feed me to."_

" _And how do I know you didn't squeal anything to him?" Wolfgang asked, narrowing his eyes._

 _Desmond set his cigarette down. "…You get a good look at his new pearly whites?"_

" _Ines may have mentioned something about a physical description of the man himself. Modified extensively, unsurprisingly."_

"… _Let's just say the new teeth were a bit of a parting gift from the last time we met. Back when I had skin and he had a presumably working cock," Desmond boasted._

" _This was from Vienna?" Wolfgang asked. Desmond's smile drooped. "Ines again?"_

" _She's a good little agent. Reports everything. Care to explain?" Wolfgang asked._

" _No," Desmond shook his head. "And if it's all the same to you, don't mention it to Melanie, either. Let's just say Vienna has bad memories all around."_

" _Well, as soon as we're able, we'll have to report back to Melanie regardless. This Markovich is accumulating a lot more power than our beloved science empress will abide. She'll want an assault as soon as possible, preferably surgical. Failing that, well, we haven't had an all-out war in centuries," Wolfgang laughed._

 _Desmond grinned, seeing Melanie's wind-up toy revel in the possibility. He was arrogant by design, and couldn't help but feel sorry for him. A side effect from his creator being the most arrogant being in Europe. She saw herself as a deity, above humanity, and she passed those beliefs to her enforcers and servants. Europe was theirs to brutalize, to experiment on, to "govern." The last thing Melanie believed in was something that could challenge her. Well, his hunch had been correct. Aleksandr was roughly two decades away from reuniting with Melanie. And this time, it would be on his terms, not hers._

* * *

 _Malocchio wandered down the tunnels. The Panzerwolves had announced that the immediate vicinity was clear of all hostiles. Malocchio had located a radiation leak, and some fungus growing from the walls. It was still in the juvenile stages, but it could only take hours for the first pods to spawn. So he helped himself to some of the diesel from the APC's, the jerry can filled about halfway._

 _As he passed through the dorms, he could hear the sounds of running water. Malocchio stopped and noticed steam coming under the doorway of the communal showers. He paused. Most of the Panzerwolves were either in the mess hall or establishing a perimeter just inside the actual tunnel. Haldor was currently sleeping in the gymnasium. That left his other two partners and the foreigners. Two men, two women. 50/50 odds. Malocchio was a man whose circumstances denied him most vices. Voyeurism was really all he had._

 _He peeked inside, glancing at the clothing folded on the bench. Two pairs of heavy boots, black bodysuit, military-style jacket, and a sword. Male foreigner. Damn. Disappointed, Malocchio continued his route. The moment he turned the corner, the female foreigner exited her room after her quick nap, entered the shower room, and began to undress._

 _Jiasheng exited the shower just in time to see Xixi stripping off her coat alongside her boots. He ducked back behind the corner, annoyed. "Has anyone in your tribe ever told you the meaning of "privacy?" he asked._

" _Has anyone in your hole ever told you the meaning of marriage?" Xixi asked as she took off her wool socks. "It's all a matter of we since my father sold me to you."_

 _Jiasheng looked away. "Do you have to keep saying it like that? He didn't… I wasn't looking to buy anything… anyone," he hastily added._

" _You kill the cannibals, you get a prize," Xixi continued as she pulled down her heavy cargo pants. "Seems fair to me," she groused._

" _I'm not…" Jiasheng paused as he thought about how to proceed. "I just wanted a place to sleep and some warm meals. I offered the only service I knew I could, I wasn't looking to…"_

" _So, if you knew what your actions would lead to, what would you have done?" Xixi asked as she stopped stripping. "Left us to our fate?"_

 _Jiasheng said nothing._

"… _Jiasheng, are you a believer in love at first sight?" Xixi asked as she slid Jiasheng's bodysuit towards him._

"… _I don't think I do," Jiasheng admitted._

" _Good. Me neither," Xixi announced as she approached Jiasheng. "As a matter of fact, I don't believe in romance, either. I used to, back before the Triad pirates came and took most of my friends. If Buddha is merciful, their deaths were quick. I spent most of the time since starving during the day and freezing during the night, just being grateful to survive the next day."_

" _I'm not an idealist, Jiasheng, or a dreamer. I wasn't thrilled when my father bound us together, but I can think of hundreds of less preferable alternatives. I don't… love you, but you've never beaten or sold me, never violated me or left me behind. I respect you, I appreciate you and can admit you are somewhat endearing, but I cannot bring myself to forget that I was sold to you."_

" _Then what do you ask of me?" Jiasheng pleaded, exasperated._

"… _How come we've never consummated?" Xixi asked._

"… _In the eyes of the Emperor, this union does not exist," Jiasheng admitted. "Without the bureaucracies approval, should we conceive a child and they deny our union, both you and the child shall be left abandoned and exiled by imperial decree."_

" _And you would allow this to happen?" Xixi asked as she peeled her tank top over her shoulders._

"… _If I am successful in my mission, if I can find the Pale Witch and return home with her, I will be granted the Imperial Favor. I can use it to free someone marked for execution, learn of forbidden knowledge, attain wealth second only to that of the Emperor himself, pardon myself from any crime, and take any woman I want as my bride," he finished as he took her hands into his._

 _Xixi looked into his eyes, a playful smirk on her lips. "You've practiced that spiel?"_

" _It came from the heart, woman," Jiasheng snapped._

" _My apologies, I mean no offense," Xixi replied, unconcerned. "So, we are married under his Imperial holiness, what then? Shall I become Fan Xixi, Imperial housewife and babymaker?"_

"… _What do you want me to tell you?" Jiasheng asked. "That the Imperial Court won't look down on you for being a foreign commoner? That you and our children won't be subject to whispers and stares? That you'll ever see the sky again? Or any of your friends on the surface? Because I can promise you none of those things. All I can offer is myself, and apart from the Emperor's Blood, you will be the most important person in my life. I have few friends and no blood relatives, so it will be a lonely existence, but we will be together, that I can promise you."_

 _Xixi finally broke eye contact. Living and dying in a hole would have been unthinkable to her years ago. It sounded like a prison, little better than being shipped away to whatever slave pen the Mountain King saw fit for her. But she now saw an escape, away from the capricious whims of fate on the surface in exchange for stability and some modicum of security. She could be warm, fed, and safe. She would do anything for that opportunity._

"… _If being your wife will allow me to sleep peacefully for the rest of my days, then I will offer you myself, and offer it gladly," she stated solemnly as she stripped away the last of her garments. Jiasheng sat on the bench, covering himself with his jacket as Xixi turned to face him. "If it means living in a world where my sons won't be brutalized and my daughters won't be raped, then so be it. From this day forward, I am yours."_

"… _Take your shower, Xixi," said Jiasheng, looking away from her. As Xixi rounded the corner, Jiasheng took a moment to calm his mind and body. Had Xixi done the same to a triad pirate or cannibal, hell, even to one of these foreign barbarians they found themselves allied with, she likely would have regretted the decision at the very least. Jiasheng was obligated to hold himself to a higher standard, he figured as he suited back up. She deserved it. As a matter of fact, it was probably best that he stand guard until she finished. Wouldn't want any busybody perverts looking for a show._

* * *

 _Malocchio had finally located an extinguisher. Though fire was the best method of clearing botchling nests, allowing a fire to spread underground was reckless, even for him. As soon as the bulk of the fungus had been scorched, he'd finish the rest of the job manually. It was against his nature enough to work so much for free, but if all of his efforts to extract Desmond could come to nothing, his professional reputation would be in jeopardy. The only way to save face at that point would be to kill everyone, and he'd rather not kill Madame Dubois._

 _Speaking of, as he passed by the officer's quarters that Ines was using as her room, he noticed two familiar blades propped against the doorway next to the rifles. So, the choir boy finally caved to his instincts and gave Ines what she had been long overdue for? He pressed his undamaged ear against the side of the doorway._

"… _do this anymore. I don't know what to tell them."_

" _We made it, that's all that really matters," Ines replied._

" _For now, but all of this? Over and over. I can't. I'm not Desmond. I…" he gasped as he muttered some prayers under his breath._

" _Mustafa… please. You only did it for my protection. No one else knows," she tried to placate him._

" _If Desmond finds out... if SHE finds out… I'm dead," he continued._

" _You did it to save me and I… I won't tell anyone," she stated. "They'll never find out if we both just not tell anyone."_

" _That just means…"_

" _That my head will be on the chopping block too? Maybe. But you did it to protect me, and I must honor that. You saved my life, Mustafa. It's up to us to decide if the information you told that iron butcher is of any value, and I say we decide it wasn't," she tried to encourage._

" _But what if it wasn't to HIM?!" he hissed. "I just gave that thing everything it needed to draw up a blueprint to hit everything to the west of the Tempest!"_

" _No… you told him how to hit Rictoberg," she slowly drew out. "You told him how to kill those kraut pigs. This information will not affect us because WE will be long gone before anything comes to pass."_

" _Ines…"_

" _I say fuck Markovich, fuck Rictoberg, fuck the Teutonic Reich, fuck the Inquisition, and fuck the Marquis. We are stuck in a game between two petulant monsters playing God, and I say the best move for us is to leave the board."_

" _And go where?!" he hissed._

"… _I have a plan," Ines whispered. "My local cell has contacts with the Gaelic Underground that I don't believe Desmond is fully aware of. They are looking to make some aggressive moves soon from what I can tell. What I'm thinking is that if we can set them up with some weapons from the Ossani mob with Melanie none the wiser, perhaps we could trade that favor for…"_

 _At this point, Malocchio had grown bored. He had already overheard Mustafa spill some classified information to keep the pressure off of Ines skull. It was no great secret to him, though he knew Mustafa's fears of the rest finding out were justified. That being said, he was surprised by Ines's astute assessment of Europe's condition over the past few centuries. Guess she was more than just a pretty face after all._

 _Malocchio was in no position to talk, nor did he have the desire to. Still, the Triunifyte was predictable. The guilt would eat away at him until he finally confessed, to Desmond if he was lucky or Melanie if he was not. He'd take the blame for it to spare Ines, with Desmond taking him at his word and Melanie taking liberties on Ines herself._

 _As for Ines plan, well, best of luck to launch it into action before Malocchio was ordered to wipe out the cell._

 _As the ghoul sauntered down the hallway, Mustafa rested his head against the pillow of the cot. "The things I've seen and done… it feels like this watch is falling apart."_

" _Pardon?" Ines asked._

"… _One of my old classmates explained it to me like this. Most Triunifytes believe that our duty is to the Almighty and that we all serve His purposes regardless of knowledge or will. Our paths are determined from the day of our birth to our last breaths. All that happens is to His will. If that's the case, then as of late the Almighty terrifies me more and more."_

" _OK, I think I understand," said Ines, who had stopped believing in God after Gaspard murdered her family. "So what does this have to do with a watch?"_

" _My friend proposed to me that, rather than some kind of gardener who tends and prunes all things to His liking and knowledge, that perhaps His true nature was that of a watchmaker. The world is designed to function with or without his actions or knowing, like clockwork. So, considering all the things that have happened recently, I've been somewhat pondering which possibility is worse. Is this horrible world we live in the result of meticulous planning at the hands of a callous Almighty? Or is it solely by our own hands we have ruined our futures, and the Almighty has abandoned us to fates of our own making or His own shoddy craftsmanship?" he asked._

" _If there is even an Almighty at all?" Ines added._

"… _Of these three possibilities, I know not which frightens me more," Mustafa confessed._

 _Ines pondered this as well. As she did, some interesting perspectives began to fill her mind. "So, if I'm understanding your positions, you fear that nothing is under our control or everything is?"_

" _Essentially, I suppose," Mustafa muttered._

"… _Let's say we put that to the test," Ines said as she rose to her feet and began unbuttoning the top of her blouse._

" _What are you doing?" Mustafa exclaimed._

" _According to you, exactly what I'm supposed to do or what I am choosing to do," Ines explained as she reached just above her navel. "I'm either entirely responsible for my actions or I am not. And the same such principles apply to you. Do you surrender to fate or make your own, and do you even care if you can tell?" Ines continued as she dropped her shirt._

" _Are you trying to tempt me?" Mustafa asked as she unclasped her bra._

" _Am I?" she teased playfully._

" _Ines, I'm being serious, if this continues I'll…" he stopped as Ines closed the space between his face and hers._

" _Here's a conundrum for you," she asked. "If a man makes love to a woman and only the Almighty is watching, how can He be offended if everything was made to His design? That is if He is even watching. Or exists. If that was the case, then really the only thing stopping you from ripping the rest of my clothing off iMMPHH!" she was interrupted as Mustafa planted his lips on hers. He found himself choosing to peel off Ines' trousers while Ines found herself preordained to remove Mustafa's shirt. Theology was odd like that._

* * *

 _As expected, the complex was attached to the cavernous highway. Standing in at roughly ten meters, the massive tunnel stretched into darkness, the power having long since died. The generators they had uncovered were only for the inside of the garrison complex, so the sentries standing outside guarding against whatever lay in wait in the tunnels only had the equivalence of a porch light to aid their limited night vision. As tempting as recon was, Wolfgang was adamant that the perimeter defense was of top priority._

 _Three of the junior members of Wolfgang's team had been selected to watch over the dark as the rest enjoyed some R &R. They huddled together around a burning barrel, the cold affecting them even through their armor. They did as the rookies were wont to do, grousing about leadership and making plans for leave after returning to the Tannenburg. The small talk and boredom was only disrupted by the sounds of scratching at the door leading to the complex. As the closest moved to open it, he heard some sharp thuds against the door itself._

 _Opening the door, he saw two malformed and chard fetuses the size of small dogs collapse to the ground, dead with knives buried in their spines. A third bolted past him, diving and weaving through the legs of the guards as it disappeared into the dark. Malocchio appeared in the doorway immediately after, retrieving his knives from the corpses. Looking around, he swiped a flashlight off of the closest guard and immediately darted into the darkness to pursue the last of his prey. The three guards only watched in incredulity as the greatest assassin in Europe continued his enthusiastic bug hunt._

 _Malocchio's feet pounded against the asphalt as his beam of light trailed the recently birthed bile of the botchling. Allowing it to re-establish a nest for itself, however unlikely, would add extra weeks of clearing within this facility. Even if they were only scheduled to stay for an evening or two, idle hands were the Devil's playthings, and Malocchio was a man afforded few vices._

 _He continued following the minuscule trail, his instincts having been honed long after most of his senses had been dulled. He'd never been in these tunnels before, but he had two centuries of investigative experience to draw upon in addition to familiarity with the nature of death. He knew he had entered a killing field long before his flashlight crossed over the first corpse. The light trailed up the worn boot to the eviscerated corpse of a man wearing a fur uniform, clutching an automatic machinegun as if its spent life depended on it. Slowly, he scanned over the tunnel. More corpses, and not all of them humans. Some of them were canines the size of Clydesdales, almost completely hairless except for the manes on the backs of their necks. Others looked like amphibious gorillas, these ones with strange apparatuses hooked up to their spines with crude weapons in their hands._

 _Malocchio felt a weak grip wrap around his ankle. Kicking it away as he leaped back, he shown a light onto the sole survivor of the slaughter. This one was dressed similar to the soldiers, but with some added frills that could only mean this one was an officer. The cap, at the very least, identified them as a commissar for the People's National Union. And she was trying to hold her intestines in._

 _Her face was caked in blood as she struggled to breathe, each gulp of air an agonizing ordeal. The machine pistol at her side, long since empty, now existed only to prop up her body as she leaned towards Malocchio. The commissar looked towards the upright corpse, trying to warn him as best she could. "…sokhranit'… sebya…" she gasped out._

 _Malocchio immediately severed her jugular. The commissar gasped in surprise as the assassin cradled her body. Her eyes had widened in pain, but the last thought through her mind was the realization. She offered the humanitarian a weak smile as she passed. Malocchio closed her eyes as she did, resting her body in the middle of her men, a memorial to their sacrifice and last stand. Malocchio knew not their reasons or motives for trying to secure this complex. All he knew was that there was something in here that would pose a threat to his group if allowed to fester. He had a new job to do._

* * *

 _The towering metal legs probed their way through the retrieved bodies. Upon finding a satisfactory corpse, the atrophied old hag on her throne typed some commands into her side console. From the bar sitting across her legs, various surgical instruments sprang out and began harvesting. Brains, kidneys, hearts, stomachs, anything that promised good material for future research. The hag grinned as she tossed the exhausted carcass towards her protectors, the ravenous bipedal hounds tearing into it._

" _Today has truly been a blessing, my children. Praise be upon Father Aleksandr. Blessings be upon Elder Olga," the hag announced as her throne stood upright, rising her withered body three stories above the armed pricolici spread out through the slaughter field. They were intelligent and obedient, holding back and protecting their leader while the direwolves and krakonochs attacked the humans. The survivors were busy licking their wounds, a respite the Yaga permitted them in reward for a job well done._

" _Well, in any event, it would simply be wasteful to allow such perfectly good material to go to waste. Where is my Fluffy?" she asked as her mining lights over her shoulders scanned over the bodies. Eventually, she found the alpha direwolf, or at least former alpha. No matter. With enough DNA and time, Fluffy would return right as rain. After all, the sixth time was the charm! She typed some more commands into her console, and a cluster of wires swarmed down to grasp Fluffy's corpse by the neck and forepaws, dragging it up to face her. As she dragged Fluffy upright, she took notice of a suspicious wound on his stomach. A cut, straight down, almost from neck to groin. As she watched, she noticed something emerging from the wound. Ten charcoal worms began to break through and pried open from the wolf. The parasitic corpse leaped onto the Yaga's throne. The Yaga's bright blue eyes widened in horror as Malocchio brought down the knife towards her neck._


	15. Lab Rat

Chapter 15: Lab Rat

 _Rictoberg Grand Palace of Vienna_

 _It was one of the most ambitious architectural projects of the late twentieth century. Headed up by Cornelius Rictoberg the Third, the multibillionaire banker and art-house exhibitor had spent a significant fortune refurbishing an old mountaintop cathedral into a mansion fit for a family that essentially outlived their rivals in the Hapsburg dynasty. Over the years, it had been utilized by his family and descendants as yet another weekend retreat, appreciating a vista as scenic as it was expensive._

 _Of course, the wayward lamb of the Rictoberg family had other interests in the building. Ever since she was a young girl, some of her happiest memories of her childhood had involved playing in the catacombs beneath the manse, a place to hide her comic books and plot her ascension as Ultra-Princess of Humanity. Upon inheriting it after her twenty-fifth birthday, she once again returned to the catacombs, this time remake it into something more to her tastes._

 _Melanie watched the body intently as Aleksandr looked over the readings. Every fiber of hair, every pore, every cell had come from the DNA of Melanie herself. The result; a perfect copy of a young adult Melanie Rictoberg, sans one critical ingredient to which they would amend tonight. "Begin phase five," Melanie announced. A surge of electricity jolted through the body, lurching it up as radiation began coursing through the bloodstream._

 _Aleksandr wiped some sweat from his brow. Hopefully, this test would go significantly better than the last few trials they had done. Earlier, upon his arrival, he had suggested that they use an animal like a cat or a rabbit for the initial test runs. Melanie had been adamant that this procedure was for humans specifically, and supplied her own test subject for the initial results. He had learned the hard way that when Melanie wanted something, Melanie got something._

 _Melanie ran to the computer, the center of a mass of machines hooked up by cables to the slab of meat on the table. This particular obstacle had stumped her for years, the transfer of data to brainwaves, a field of study that carried with it titanic implications about learning and development. Melanie still wanted to go further. Personality, memories, behavior, talent, these were the things Melanie wanted to carry over, to transfer to her newest and immortal body. She was not going to spend eternity semi-conscious in some gelatinous vat. What good was eternal life without eternal youth?_

" _Readings are getting awfully close to the red," Aleksandr warned as he watched the toes began to curl._

" _She can take it, I made her, it's my blood in her veins," Melanie muttered to herself as she watched the newborn corpse begin to gasp involuntarily. Melanie felt the grin creep on her face as she watched her younger body's eyes begin to flutter open. "Yes… YES!" she cried out climactically. Aleksandr was trying to keep all meters under control. Futilely._

 _Blood erupted from the mouth of the corpse, its heart having exploded, followed by the eyes. As blood poured from every orifice, the cold flat-line filled the room. Melanie stared at her ruined body, the shock having worn off to be supplemented by disappointment and irritation._

" _Take thirty-eight," Markovich muttered under his breath._

" _SHUT UP!" Melanie screamed._

" _We haven't made any progress in a month. Perhaps we should scale back the final experiment until we finally have all variables accounted for…"_

" _I will not spend my utopic future in an iron lung!" Melanie hissed. "Move forward with the next body. We were this close, I just know it!"_

 _Markovich grabbed the corpse under his arms and dragged it to the pit. The experiment being what it was and causing what it did, even the organs of each body were left unsalvageable, denying them an opportunity to make back any form of profit. Instead, the blonde corpse joined the several few dozen of her sisters in the pit, the picturesque cadavers all-resting on many deformed monstrosities that had been the results of Melanie's first tests from her "guest and friend."_

" _Perhaps a good sleep would do us some benefits?" suggested Markovich._

" _Coffee, meal, then we try again," insisted Melanie, accepting no argument, as was par for course._

 _Aleksandr groaned. "…I'll take the usual," he relented._

" _While we wait, I think I'll get Walter to surrender that ungrateful little bitch. Perhaps a few more test-runs on the conscious transfer process should prove amusing," Melanie insisted._

" _Maybe we can also find a spider and pull its legs off. It will be just as enlightening," Aleksandr couldn't stop himself._

" _What did you say to me?" Melanie turned to him, staring him down._

" _Just admit what it is. Baseless torture. Don't dress it up or try to justify it scientifically. For once, just do me a favor and admit you are only using her to indulge your petty sadism," Markovich spat._

" _Or what?" Melanie sneered. "You'll think less of me?"_

" _I already regard you as a jailer, and discussions on morality bore me as ever," Markovich growled. "But don't pretend you have any deeper or more benign interest in that woman other than your indulgences. I should have let Kovalenko have you, it's like you two were made for one another."_

 _Melanie's body heat began to soar. "Ready the next test subject, now! I will personally oversee her internal biometrics myself."_

" _And stop calling your meat-suits "her." They are inanimate sacks of skin, bone, and organs. If you wanted to give birth to life, you should have used that bit between your legs years ago," Aleksandr taunted._

 _Melanie shrieked as she stormed up the stairway. Aleksandr groused to himself as he sat in the lab. The honeymoon period was over, as was his gratuity over having been rescued from Her Majesties finest. Sometimes, he almost found himself missing the days when Melanie would try to retire for the evening by groping and molesting him in a desperate attempt at seduction. Almost._

 _No, now he had been locked in the basement for three weeks and counting, Melanie's lack of progress and her own mortality frustrated her to no end, leaving her with few outlets. If this was how she treated her lab partner, there was no telling how the staff above managed to endure her tirades. As far as they were concerned, it merely came down to an heiress struggling to come to grips with her mid-life crisis. If only, Markovich thought as he stared at the pit, they understood._

* * *

 _Some distance away from the manse, which still overlooked the countryside in an ominous manner, a truck pulled into a cliff-side villa. Walter Schuler stepped out, cracking his neck as he left his assault rifle in the passengers seat. Another day running security in the safest city in Europe. He glanced up at the manse, then down at the city it overlooked. Once again he missed Australia, all his friends back in the service and his twenty-mile backyard. At least this job had some perks._

 _As he reached the door, the aroma of curry entered wafted into his nostrils. Ignoring the brief pang of guilt in his heart, he entered to see his maidstress putting the finishing touches inside a pot. Parisa looked to him, her eyes brightening. "Welcome back."_

" _You seem surprised," Walter deadpanned as he sat by the table._

" _You aren't usually back this early," Parisa shrugged. "And you don't smell like alcohol."_

" _Ha-ha," Walter groused. "I was planning on it, but all the bars have been loaded up with the Ossani."_

" _The Italian Mob?" Parisa asked as she let the pot simmer._

" _Looks like they're setting up some fronts in town, bought up some of the pubs and restaurants while the authorities to turn a blind eye."_

" _Should we be worried?" Parisa asked as she gathered some plates._

" _Nah, old Ossani and Rictoberg are like this," Walter held up two fingers together. "As long as she gets her cut, we won't have a problem with them. Which honestly suits me just fine. I think I got a good look at Ossani's bodyguard. Kept giving me the stink-eye while I was on patrol. Of course, why the Italians are entrusting camel jockeys-"_

" _Excuse me?" Parisa interrupted, humorlessly._

"… _People of Middle Eastern descent," Walter placated. "as bodyguards is not something I think I'll get used to."_

 _Parisa eyed him suspiciously. "I'd have thought sharing your bed with a Persian would have enlightened you, culturally."_

" _We all have our weaknesses," Walter confessed._

 _Parisa had been "gifted" to him after having saved her from throwing herself from the manse rooftop. The woman had been raving about torture and abominations in the basement, begging Walter not to return her to her custodian. So Walter, having kept the suicide attempt to himself, offered to buy Parisa off of Melanie, who merely responded to not believe anything she said and that she had "lost out on her gateway to immortality." Walter was not the least bit curious about whatever Melanie busied Aleksandr with, so he brought the poor woman to his villa._

 _After about a week of locking herself in the guest room, Parisa slowly began to open up to Walter. She told him Melanie had rescued her from a familiar gang of Serbian mercenaries, the details of her captivity Walter could only dare to imagine, but had obviously begun to chaff under Ms. Rictoberg's sunny disposition and congenial personality. So, Mr. Schuler assured her that she was under no obligations to service him like her last captors, and if she ever wanted to leave, there were some duffel bags in the basement loaded with cash. After finding out he was serious, Parisa was grateful for his honesty and candor, but didn't want to risk infuriating Melanie more than she had, so she opted to become Walter's housekeeper, a position that slowly morphed overtime into a girlfriend-like role, with everything that it entailed. As time went on and her trust in Walter deepened, her personality slowly began to recover, returning to her original temperament before her captivities._

 _After the meal, Parisa began gathering the plates while Walter headed upstairs for an early night. "So early? The game's on tonight," Parisa offered._

" _Oh, right. Sydney got eliminated, so I don't really care. Besides, Melanie's got me running errands all day tomorrow, so I'm just going to call it a night and take care of it early in the morning."_

" _That reminds me," Parisa spoke up before he reached the stairs. "Has Melanie said anything about me since…"_

"… _She may have indicated that she wanted you back in whatever project she's running," Walter admitted._

 _Parisa gulped._

" _And I may have told her that you haven't been feeling well these past few weeks. Wouldn't want the bug you're carrying to infect her science equipment," he added as he climbed the stairs._

 _Parisa exhaled, resting her hands by her side in relief. Walter never had to go as far out of his way to protect her like he did, but the effort was appreciated nonetheless. He was a good friend. She owed it to him to tell the truth. Not just about Melanie, but about herself. She had a plan to leave this terrible place, but couldn't… wouldn't do it alone. They had enough money. They could find somewhere safe. Walter seemed to have a strange affinity for Australia, and it seemed as good a place as any to start over again. As long as she knew what to do, the future only looked bright._

 _She heard the basement door open up. Parisa froze, clutching the plate she was washing tightly. She turned just in time to see the muzzle of a gun pointed towards her._

" _Listen good," the voice growled. "Play along and this all goes well. First thing's first, call Jon down here. I really need to speak to him."_

 _Parisa, eyes widened in fear, nodded. She turned her back to the intruder, taking a few deep breaths. "…Beloved, can I please speak to you?"_

 _There was no response upstairs. The intruder stood behind Parisa, holding her close as they maneuvered towards the stairway. Right before they reached the stairs, the intruder stopped and slowly turned around behind them, Parisa still in front. Just as expected, the breaching charge on the second floor went off, blowing a hole in the bedroom floor that lead right to the kitchen below. Herr Schuler dropped from the resulting gap, landing on the floor with expert precision, his pistol aimed in front of him towards the intruder and his hostage. His eyes widened in shock as he saw the familiar face._

" _Long time, no see, Jon," the voice spoke as she drew a second pistol to place under Parisa's jaw to supplement the one trained on her ex-lover._

"… _Kavya?"_

* * *

 _Saeed Hassan watched over the tables as the small army of capos and enforcers were served drinks. Andre Ossani, seated at the head of the central table, took a moment to rise as he clinked his glass. "Everyone, may I please have your attention?" he spoke in Italian, the polite tone masking his true authority, which revealed itself as the several dozen hardened criminals acquiesced to his wishes._

" _Thank you. These few months have been eventful. With all the borders closed, I'm surprised you all were able to make it." The smattering of laughter that erupted throughout the table brought a smile to Ossani's face._

 _The man had a quaint, unassuming appearance and demeanor, which his sharp intellect and cunning had practically weaponized to take control of the Sicilian underworld, and had thoroughly branched out to every corner of the continent from Lisbon to Budapest. Right now, he was celebrating the acquisition of new territories in Austria. Recently, he had read an upcoming headline which would label him "the Julius Caesar of Organized Crime." A pity the title would never make it to print, and the writer was no longer around to protest, he thought as he glanced at Saeed._

" _After months of hard work and sacrifice, I am proud to officially announce that Vienna, from this day forward, shall be the new headquarters of our new eastern European branches. And the man who I have chosen to lead these new expansions has been briefed towards the new realities he is about to face. Gentlemen, please, let's all hear it for Alberto Bertinelli!" he toasted as the rest raised their glasses. The man of the hour didn't respond in kind, staring into his glass as his thought went out to his last five predecessors all gunned down in various battles against the Stalingrad Bratva. Despite Ossani's encouragement, Austria and Hungary were still contested areas, as far as the Sicilians saw it. This wasn't a promotion, as far as he was concerned. This was a death sentence._

 _Not that he was fool enough to contest that with Andre, himself. This agreement came about thanks to a request by one of Andre's most trusted allies. Melanie Rictoberg had lately requested some… extralegal assets and support. A large portion of Ossani's revenue depended on keeping Melanie happy, so if she wanted a sizable gang of Italian mobsters standing shoulder to shoulder with her garrison of private security, he didn't have the heart to argue._

 _As the toasting and soaking commenced, Andre beckoned Saeed to approach him. His bodyguard leaned down towards his employer. "How long do you think poor little Alberto will last until I need to replace him?" Andre whispered mirthlessly. Saeed said nothing. "Agreed," Andre nodded. "I hope his wife had made peace with being a widow. Comes with the job. You wouldn't happen to know of any quiet shoulders she could weep upon?" Saeed grinned. Mrs. Bertinelli was a woman he had fancied for quite some time. Had taken to fancying her on and off over the past two years. Along with Mrs. Silvestre, Mrs. Ricci, Mrs. Romano, and Ms. Ossani (What father didn't know wouldn't hurt him.)_

" _How well do you think Bertinelli's boys did securing the district?" Andre asked as he began carving into his meal. Saeed said nothing. "I thought as much. Moretti tells me that a handful of Ivan's are held up in a boarding house on the north side of town. Send them our regards, if you will?"_

 _Saeed made his way through the dining hall, giving an affectionate clap on Alberto's shoulder as he left. Climbing the stairs, he brushed through some of the staff as they climbed down to service their new guests. Reaching the top floor, he looked out of the main window towards the road. The town didn't officially have a curfew, but Ms. Rictoberg's security was usually very active at night, and people had long since learned to stay out of their way. So it was rather surprising to see the massive frame looking into the restaurant as several other smaller figures darted down the street._

 _Saeed stared down the stranger. The man had to at least have stood a head taller than the Libyan, and his frame alone doubled Saeed's. He grinned at the hitman as he strode away. This clearly wasn't a tourist, Saeed thought to himself as he looked for the back door. To his eternal lack of shock, the guards posted there had been killed, and the perpetrators immediately jumped him. If they had been armed with more than knives, it might have been a fair fight. Four had died before they recognized the caliber of warrior they were dealing with, two others overestimated their abilities, and another was killed trying to flee. The last found himself clutching his meat inside his ribs as Saeed stood over him, realizing that the man wasn't Russian._

 _He spoke in a language Saeed didn't understand, in a tone he didn't care for. Saeed wasn't paid to speak, let alone interrogate, so after dispatching the last survivor, he took notice of the package lying on the ground. He picked it up, shook it, and noticed the ticking. Rolling his eyes, he placed it under his arm, heading off to find the big man and return his package like the Good Samaritan he was._

* * *

 _Jon felt his throat clench as Kavya dug her gun into Parisa's throat. The last time he had seen her, he'd watched as the tears and terror welled up in her eyes after he made his move. Both had seemingly long since vanished from her. Kavya just stared at him with contempt, any friendliness and camaraderie having bled out on that rooftop in Alexandria._

" _You've put on some weight, Jon," Kavya stated. "Didn't think you were one to get soft."_

" _Let her go," Jon retorted. "You have a problem with me, you can just leave her out of it."_

 _Kavya stared down at the trembling woman in her arms. "How did you give me away? I presume "beloved" tipped him off? Clever," she complimented as a tear streaked down Parisa's face._

" _You have an issue with me, take it out on me! Take the damn money or take your shot, just leave her the hell alone!" Jon growled._

" _I saw," Kavya nodded. "It's a lot. I don't really blame you for planting one in my kidneys and then blowing my ears out," she sarcastically deadpanned._

" _I didn't want to kill you," Jon tried, fruitlessly, to explain. "I knew Desmond's guys could stabilize you after I left."_

" _DON'T YOU GET IT?!" Kavya screamed. "I TRUSTED YOU! I gave you my trust! I gave you my life, my body, my confidence, and you just shit on all of it! You don't get to make up for what you did to me, and you don't get a chance to try and justify it!"_

" _Then take your revenge!" Jon said as he dropped his gun. "GET ON WITH IT!"_

"… _No," Kavya stated as she released her hostage. Parisa all but collapsed into Jon's arms, sobs wracking her body. "Walter, who is she?" she mewled._

 _Kavya just stared at him, egging him to answer the woman._

"… _Kavya, listen closely," Jon began. "I want you to grab every duffle bag you can carry, get in the truck, and get to the train station. There should be a guy named Desmond Lockheart waiting there. Tell him you're a friend of Jon Waylon, and you have information on Melanie Rictoberg."_

 _Parisa looked mortified. "Walter, what are you-"_

" _If this woman is here, Desmond isn't far off, is he?" Jon asked Kavya. She didn't say anything. "The only reason you would come this far if it isn't to shoot me, is to get your hands one something. Or someone."_

"… _Well, no one can accuse you of being stupid," Kavya admitted. "We're here to extract Markovich."_

" _Finally putting one in his head?" Jon suggested._

 _Kavya finally looked away. "…No."_

 _Below the cliff, a series of explosions rocked Vienna._

* * *

 _Markovich had reset the lab, purging it of any contaminants and drawing yet another clone body from the vat. Melanie had essentially turned a significant swath of the catacombs into a garden of her flesh and blood. Each body grown and molded into a replica of Melanie in the prime of her overly fetishized youth. After seeing the fortune she poured into maintaining her body now, desperately trying to remain twenty-six forever, it really shouldn't have shocked Markovich to see the depths of her desperation to escape the clutches of Thanatos. Yet he found himself marveling at the overlapping levels of fear and ego on display as he carried the teenaged body to the table._

 _He sat by the table, looking over the body. Here he was, stuck at an assembly line of vanity. His army had been thoroughly destroyed or driven into hiding; his own government disavowed him once they realized he was under the thumb of a powerful civilian. Melanie had enough power to keep the governments at bay, and with the collapsing of the European Commonwealth; the notion of extradition was little more than a sick joke. Still, he had to marvel at the irony. Melanie had succeeded where the UN, MI6, and Soviet reformers had failed. Locking him up, condemning him to a life of trying to animate slabs of meat for the rest of his existence, forced to contemplate his actions and decisions._

 _Melanie stormed back down into the facility, barking orders up the stairway. "I want the garrison back on high alert! Establish a perimeter around the manse. Disregard the city; leave it to the police and Ossani if they're that desperate! Now take care of it!" she screeched as she slammed the door._

 _Markovich barely looked up. "What's the deal?"_

" _None of your concern," Melanie hissed. "We are taking care of it."_

" _A riot?" Markovich asked. "Since when were you concerned about the little people?"_

" _Just a stupid fucking turf war, nothing that concerns you or me," Melanie hissed._

 _Markovich went back to his duties, but the cogs had already begun to turn. Vienna was run by the Ossani, the biggest mafia family in Europe. Engaging in a turf war with them was practically guaranteed to be suicide should one find themselves lacking the resources and manpower. And the only organization with enough of both to do it was…_

" _Melanie, I believe I've managed to isolate a mechanical issue with the neuro-transfer device."_

 _Melanie looked to him, her previous foul temper beginning to cool. "Now? I figured we had streamlined the design optimally three months ago."_

" _Nothing major, just a minor, eh, "tweak" that could pay off in the future. Looks like a power coupler that keeps interfering with the EEG. That's probably why our readings are off by such critical margins."_

" _It's always the littlest things," Melanie muttered as she went over to inspect it. She undid the console, looking over the wiring. "Where is it?" she asked._

" _It's not under the console. It has less to do with the machine, and more to do with the maker."_

 _Aleksandr threw his entire body towards Melanie. He grappled with her, forcing and dragging her body into the coffin-like device. Shoving her into the chamber, he sealed it tight as she pounded and clawed the door, screaming at him._

 _Aleksandr had to work quickly. This was going to be the only opportunity he had to escape and reconnect with his allies. But first, he had to do something. First, he had to make a statement, show Melanie where he stood when it came to her hopes and dreams._

 _As he strolled over to the cadaver, he shot a glance at his trapped captor. "Melanie, I would love nothing more than to open your throat and watch you bleed out, but as it stands, time is something of the essence. Besides, I hope you will allow me to demonstrate just how I feel about this Sisyphean effort to not become the bitter crone you've always been spiritually. Observe."_

 _Aleksandr immediately began to apply the electrical current throughout the body, surging it past the maximum safety levels. The body squirmed and writhed as its nervous system activated, appendages curling as it choked on half-taken breaths. Markovich turned the nobs to the highest level, snapping them off as he hit the final capacity. The body jolted upwards and shot its eyes open as the surge activated its brain. She began to scream._

 _Markovich watched in shock as the body, its convulsions snapping it from the restraints, fell to the floor as she began to pant. Cautiously, he approached the newborn as she took several heaving breaths. As he did, he grabbed a scalpel from the table. He gripped it tightly as he hovered over her brittle frame. She turned to look up at him, eyes widened in fear and confusion. "…Fa…ther…"_

* * *

" _Get everyone not on essential duty down to the city now! I don't care what Melanie says; I'll take the heat for it! If we lose the city, we lose the manse, and we lose our paychecks, so get going!" Jon screamed into the phone. He slammed it on the receiver, shaking as he listened to Kavya applaud. "Fantastic performance, Jon. You're always at your best when you're stabbing someone in the back."_

" _You have a clear shot at the manse. Good luck," Jon said as he watched the caravan of security cars speed past his villa._

" _Thanks. We're going to need it," Kavya said as she gave Jon a now unloaded pistol. "I'm going to need someone with first-hand knowledge to navigate that oversized summerhouse."_

" _This wasn't part of the deal," Jon hissed._

" _The only alternative you are getting is a hole through your cranium! Quit complaining and help me clean up the mess you made!" Kavya snarled as Parisa climbed out of the basement, two duffel bags of cash on her shoulders._

" _At least make sure I can see her off," Jon asked._

" _Two minutes, Jon, or I eliminate both of you," Kavya growled as she counted off her rounds._

 _Jon walked Parisa to the car, helping her get the money into the back seat. "Why is she doing this?" she asked._

" _I made a decision a long time ago and am starting to pay for it now," Jon admitted._

" _Who is she? What did you do?" Parisa asked as she got behind the wheel._

" _She was my…" Jon averted his eyes. Parisa groaned. "Nevermind, I can guess."_

" _Let's just say I have a debt I need to clear before I can even think about any kind of future," Jon relented._

" _She's going to kill you," Parisa hissed._

" _I don't think she will," Jon shook his head. "Not her style. Besides, guaranteeing your safety is all the leverage she needs to make sure I behave."_

" _Wal… Jon," Parisa breathed. "…I…"_

" _Save it," Jon said as he glanced over at the assault rifle in the passenger seat. "Keep that on hand, you're going to need it."_

" _I don't know how to shoot that thing!" Parisa panicked._

" _You don't need to. All you need to do is point and that should send the message," Jon said as he pecked her on the cheek. "Now get going. Don't stop until you hit the… where is Desmond staying?" he turned back to ask Kavya. "The Grand Regional," Kavya answered, fittingly a hotel near the airport._

" _OK, I… I guess I'll see you soon," Parisa replied._

" _Just take care of yourself, you got enough to worry about," Jon said as he pounded the roof. As the vehicle peeled off, Kavya joined Jon at his side. "So it isn't that you can't value other people, it's just that you decided not to in Egypt."_

" _Lay off," Jon groaned. "I'm not doing this because I expect you'll forgive me. I'm doing this for her and myself."_

" _Bit late to grow a conscience," Kavya stated as she readied her submachine gun. "Well, it's now or never."_

" _You sure you're OK with this?" Jon asked as they approached the manse._

" _I'm armed, you're not," Kavya spat._

" _Not what I'm talking about," Jon replied._

 _Kavya said nothing._

* * *

 _Saeed watched from the rooftops as the mercenary troopers from the castle pushed into the city, driving back the criminals who had sprung up an impromptu insurgency. He watched as a security truck slammed into a fleeing getaway car after the latter's occupants firebombed one of Ossani's fronts. Gripping the package under his arm, he strolled along the rooftop as the sounds of sirens, screaming, and gunfire erupted below him. Seeing as the safe house had to have been cleared out by the time the attack commenced, Saeed settled for trying to find the large Chinaman and returning his package._

 _He glanced down at the fight below him, the sights and sounds reminding him of the conflicts in his hometown that he gave anything to flee. Here, there was at least an attempt to pretend human life had some inherent value, settling for garrote wires where suicide vests would have sufficed back at his home._

 _He watched as three shifty-looking easterners threw out a package similar to the one he had under his arms. It detonated the moment a security truck drove over it; killing all on board before they even had a chance to realize it. Saeed watched as several Russians peaked out of an apartment and fired rockets at another truck as it drove by, missing and hitting another residential. He sniffed in disgust. What was the point of violence if you couldn't be professional about it?_

 _That was when he saw another truck barreling down the street, its driver ducking as she swerved through the narrow roads. Saeed was taken by how attractive this one was, not looking like an Austrian native, but rather someone from his own homelands. That woman wouldn't be out without a good reason, and her desperation was evident. Saeed figured perhaps she was in need of a guardian angel, if only for the fact that doing so would put him on the opposition against others who would seek to do her harm, and he could charge Ossani for going past his death quota. And if the woman found some way to thank him, who was he to complain?_

* * *

 _Two security officers patrolled the darkened halls, occasionally speaking into their walkie-talkies to try and get back into contact with Melanie Rictoberg, who had seemingly vanished half-an-hour ago. Hansel yawned as Herman tried once more, to no avail. Growing frustrated, Herman looked towards his partner and shrugged. "You feel like joining the rest of the boys downtown?"_

" _Not a chance," Hansel replied, "Walter said those who were on essential duty should stick around, remember?" he said as he checked his watch. "Nightcap sounds good right about now, huh?"_

" _I guess," Herman responded as he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. "Halt! Who goes there?" he shouted as he pointed his flashlight towards the figure. His eyes widened at the sight as Herman rubbed his to guarantee what he was seeing. Before them stood a naked blonde woman, her dull eyes staring ahead as she cautiously approached them. Her lithe, pert body gave the two the most ominous sense of déjà vu, were it not for the fact that it was literally a naked blonde woman approaching them._

"… _Awaiting data," she announced as she came to a stop before the two officers._

" _Who are you?" Herman asked in shock._

" _Do you really care?" Hansel asked as he approached the woman with a grin on his face. "She looks cold. Why don't we get you somewhere warm and private?"_

 _Herman was about to respond had it not been for the butter knife that pierced his jugular. Hansel turned back just in time to see Melanie's guest of honor charging him with a twisted-up lab coat, which he proceeded to wring around the officer's neck as he wrestled him to the ground. The woman watched dull awe as her father struggled to strangle the life out of the third person she had ever seen in her life. The man was bigger, though, and apparently stronger, managing to get enough breath to power his way out of father's grapple. She turned her attention to the other man, on his knees as he clutched the utensil buried in his neck._

 _Markovich had been weakened by his captivity, subtlety. Melanie had overseen his diet and exercise, denying him opportunities to make an escape on his own. The officer, if he couldn't put him down now, was going to return him back to his prison, and Melanie seemed like a fan of that particular book from that one horror writer. Already his knees began to hurt as the officer began beating him in the ribs._

 _Suddenly, the officer's body seized up before going limp. Markovich looked up to see her standing over the body, fist above his neck, the knife staining the lab coat wrapped around his throat._

"… _Are you well, father," she deadpanned._

 _Markovich caught his breath as he stood up, wrapping her up in the tightest hug he could muster. "You are a beautiful woman."_

" _Is my name to be "A beautiful woman," Father?" she asked._

 _Markovich groaned. This body was proving to be a fast learner, but she still had to be taught every step of the way. "No, just… how about… Olga," he explained, using the first name that popped into his head._

" _I am Olga," Olga repeated._

" _Fantastic," Markovich exclaimed as he took the lab coat from around the officer's neck and draped it back over Olga's body. "Now again, what do we say to anyone who stops us?"_

" _You are a kindly man of God who seeks only to reform a fallen woman from destitution," Olga recited._

" _Very good," Markovich nodded._

" _That's just flat out hilarious," another voice called out. Markovich looked down the hallway to see a familiar face staring back at him._

" _DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" Markovich snarled as he got behind Olga, bringing the bloody knife to her throat._

 _Kavya snorted, training her weapon on him. "Contemptible to the last, Aleksandr. And predictable."_

 _Markovich felt a sharp blow to his shoulder, causing him to release his "hostage" as the double agent forced him to the ground._

" _You know, it's almost a shame I'm not getting the chance to kill you," Jon announced as he dragged Markovich back to his feet._

" _What?" Markovich announced as Kavya grabbed Olga by the arm._

" _We cut a deal with some old acquaintances. Getting you out alive and in one piece is our end of the bargain. So shut up and come with us."_

* * *

 _Desmond stared out at the muted skyline of Vienna, watching as explosions slowly crept past the rooftops as tracer rounds pierced the air. Another day, another warzone, this one finally in Europe proper. That being said, with the dissolution of the European Commonwealth, the odds of a proper investigation and accounting of the events that were about to transpire were almost nil. Good enough for him._

 _He looked back at the lounge, watching as Boris poured himself another whiskey while Nikita barked orders in Cantonese into the phone. "…Tseng is reporting all vital objectives have been seized. We have the city locked down for the moment."_

" _How long can we hold?" Desmond asked as he lit up another cigarette._

" _Long enough for your assets to complete the job," Boris spoke up._

 _As was usually the case in espionage, mortal enemies were working side by side towards a common interest. Despite the disavowal from the mainline political party in Moscow, Markovich was a singularly influential and connected individual. He still had friends within the criminal element and less scrupulous factions of the military and intelligence communities. Markovich's work had been secretly evaluated, and a few powerful people came away with the conclusion that his research was not only guaranteed to survive post-nuclear societal collapse, but vital for the very notion of civilization continuing. Desmond did not agree, but with the offer of releasing information on the trajectory and telemetry of the nuclear missiles pointed towards the British Isles, he really didn't need to._

 _His own satellite phone buzzed to life. Desmond answered it, pacing in front of the window as another explosion rocked downtown Vienna. "This is Bloodhound calling Dogcatcher, do you read, Dogcatcher?" Kavya spoke over the line._

" _This is Dogcatcher, are you in possession of Mongrel?" Desmond replied over the line._

" _Mongrel has been subdued, we are proceeding towards the Pound."_

 _Desmond motioned his head towards the brothers, who promptly left to intercept his team and pick up their associate._

"… _I'm sorry it had to come to this, Bloodhound," Desmond spoke over the line. "I know what collaring the guy meant to you."_

"… _Price we pay in our line of work," she replied, flatly._

"… _Is Terrier at least behaving?" Desmond asked._

"… _An asshole through and through," Kavya replied. "Looking forward to throwing his ass into a dark hole and ditching the key."_

"… _I don't believe maximum security offers conjugal visits," Desmond joked._

" _Eat shit, Dogcatcher," Kavya replied as she shut the phone off._

 _Desmond laughed for a bit. He looked at the three passes by his suitcase. Reinstatement was out of the question for Jon at this point, and he damn well knew he didn't deserve it, but for what little it was worth, he felt the least he could do for the stupid bloke was offer him an opportunity to serve out his sentence in a location of his choosing. Serving under Melanie had to be a most punishing situation, in any event._

* * *

 _Saeed watched as the truck slowed to a stop. The woman, checking to see how clear the coast was, stepped out. He noticed that by now the jitters commonly seen in civilians during warzones had vanished completely from her body language. She calmly strode out around the hood of the truck, fished out the assault rifle from the passengers side, and began a confident march through the dark alleyways._

 _Perplexed and bemused, Saeed continued to follow her, keeping to the shadows as he leaped and crawled along the rooftops above her._

 _The woman continued with her assured awareness of the situation around her, stopping right as trucks drove by or hit squads prowled the area. Saeed watched as she darted across the road the moment some Chinese gangsters had their backs turned. He was about to follow when a familiar frame exited one of the buildings as she darted away. The large Oriental was speaking on a satellite phone, in a clipped tone that indicated he was speaking to partners. Saeed's eyes darted between the target of his ire and the object of his lustful curiosity. A real dilemma he was facing. So, he did as what passed for his heart told him to do. Placing the package on the rooftop, he stuck his finger in his mouth, popped it out, and felt the currents of the wind. Satisfied by his theatrical calculations, he punted the package onto the hood of a nearby jalopy. The sudden impacts seemed to have ignited the process within the package prematurely, as the resulting explosion ended up killing two gangsters, wounding a third, and embedded shrapnel into Big Boy's arms and back. As he screamed in pain and for the survivors to pluck out the wounds from his body and carry his massive frame to safety, the overlooking jester of misery reprioritized his attention and continued his pursuit of the vexing woman._

* * *

 _The security truck pulled up at the bridge over the Danube, right as the Ural made it from the other end. Boris climbed out, sub-machine gun at the ready. Nikita glared at the other driver as she climbed out of her end of the vehicle. From the back, Jon threw out the bound Aleksandr onto the ground, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck as he hauled him towards the Russians._

" _This piece of shit is your problem now," Jon growled as he shoved Markovich into Boris's arms. Markovich tried to vault himself back to the security truck. "SHE BELONGS TO ME! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!" he cried as Boris began to drag him to the truck._

" _What are you going on about?" Boris asked, miffed at the lack of gratuity. He then noticed the blonde woman sitting in the back seat, eyes wide and seemingly vacant. "Who the hell is she?" Boris asked._

" _SHE'S MINE!" Markovich sobbed as he pointed towards the girl. "SHE'S MY WORK! SHE'S MY CHILD!"_

 _Boris stared at the two agents across from him. "The girl is a witness to an ongoing international criminal investigation. Or evidence," Kavya explained as Boris dragged Aleksandr to the Ural._

 _Jon made his way to the passenger's seat. Getting in, he found himself looking forward to and dreading reuniting with Desmond. A part of him figured he had a nice six-foot deep plot of land waiting for him back home, courtesy of Her Majesties government. Not that he deserved better, after all, he turned his back on his team for money he never managed to enjoy. He watched as Kavya kept giving the Ruskies hell about how Blondie was out of their jurisdiction and even if she wasn't she was never part of the deal in the first place. Seeing Markovich scream and whine and beg was satisfying as all hell for Jon. And it must have felt positively orgasmic to Kavya._

 _He looked in the rear-view mirror to Blondie. She just sat and stared as Markovich was dragged further and further towards the back of the Ural. He had no idea what or who this woman was, only that both Melanie and Aleksandr both really seemed to want to get their hands on her, therefore giving him all the more reason to keep her from them. Then he noticed a familiar figure approaching the security truck from the back. Holding a familiar assault rifle._

 _As the attacker opened up upon the security truck, Kavya turned around to return fire. This gave Markovich all the time he needed to wriggle free of Boris's grasp, dart towards the security truck, and wrenched the back door open to Olga. "Don't worry, father is here now," he tried to say in a placating tone. "Just come with me and everything will be OK!"_

 _As he yanked Olga from the back seat, a strong hand grabbed her by the foot. "Where do you think you're going?" Jon growled as he ducked under the bullets perforating the truck. Olga found herself in a tug of war between Aleksandr and this Jon fellow. She tried to reach her arm into her lab coat pocket and fish out the knife she had smuggled when the other woman appeared behind her father and slammed his head against the side of the truck._

" _For the last time, Markovich!" Kavya screamed. "You! Are not! Going! To fuck! This! operaAAAAGHH!" she gurgled as a bullet tore through her neck._

" _KAVYAAAAA!" Jon bayed as he released Olga. Markovich took his "daughter" from the truck, shielding her body with his as they rushed to the Ural, who didn't waste a moment peeling away from the bloodbath after their passengers were loaded._

 _Jon crawled out of the ruined truck and cradled Kavya's body as she struggled to breathe. "Stay with me, you're going to be fine," Jon tried to lie. Kavya, in pain and shock, stared up at the Aussie. She took her hand into his, lacing her fingers along with his as they had done countless times across the world. She gripped his with all she had. Only a few moments later, the light finally left her eyes._

 _Jon rested her body against the concrete bridge, took up her weapon, and pointed it towards Parisa as she set another magazine into her weapon._

"… _WHY?!" Jon gritted through tears._

"… _I'm sorry to tell you this, beloved, but Parisa died six years ago," the Persian woman explained. "She was killed in Melanie's initial experiments, and her DNA was harvested to create a more… malleable individual. A few years later, after you joined up with Melanie, she saw an opportunity to have someone keep an eye on you."_

"… _I thought you were suicidal!" Jon screamed._

" _Orchestrated by my master. Your character indicated you'd take me in to further protect me from further abuse. All resulting affection, both physical and emotional, was done to further ingratiate myself into your trust._

"… _So you're just a husk? Like the girl?" Jon growled._

"… _The answer to that is yes and no," Parisa explained. "That girl is potentially Melanie's greatest creation, a creature of unlimited potential. Compared to her, I am but a prototype, a good little servant who is loyal and humble," she continued without an ounce of resentment. "But even I have ambitions. I really did want to run away with you, Walter, but that won't happen with Aleksandr and the girl missing, she won't be in a forgiving mood. And though I truly do care for you, well, better you than me," she concluded._

 _Jon found himself in a standoff with a vicious husk that murdered his closest friend. Jon wanted nothing more than to empty Kavya's weapon into the clone, except perhaps simply dropping the weapon and letting her finish him off. Jon was a man who wanted nothing more than to fight discovering that he now had nothing left to fight for._

 _The blade pierced Parisa's liver as the hand gripped over her mouth. Jon watched as the Ossani bodyguard dispatched the clone with a few more deliberate strikes on her vitals. As the husk dropped to the road, dead before hitting the asphalt, Saeed shared a look with Jon._

"… _Who the fuck are you supposed to be?" Jon asked, numb to the situation._

 _Saeed said nothing._

"… _Why did you get involved?" Jon asked, a little louder._

 _Saeed said nothing._

"… _AND WHY IN THE FUCK DID YOU NOT COME SOONER?" Jon shrieked._

 _Saeed said nothing. He looked at the ruined body of Kavya, the distraught remains of Jon Waylon, and then down at the corpse of the sixth clone of Parisa, whose original body was laying mangled and deformed at the bottom of a pit. Perhaps it was situations like this that made him not care for people so much? As Jon abandoned any attempt to reason with Saeed and began sobbing over Kavya's body, Saeed himself made his way back to his boss, his curiosity sated._

* * *

 _Olga stared at her father as he escorted her to the aircraft. His demeanor had changed ever since they escaped. He was laughing and joking with Boris all the way to the airport, deflecting any and all questions about just who the strange blonde girl with him was. She was feeling cold, her feet and legs exposed to the elements. And her stomach was making the oddest sounds._

 _As they approached the aircraft, a man with hair above his lip approached her father._

" _Desmond, I cannot thank you enough for your generosity!" Father explained, happily. "To put such petty differences behind us is truly the mark of-"_

" _Where is my fucking team, Markovich?" the man growled._

" _Ah, yes, the traitor and the slut! Well, last I saw them, a third party was taking the opportunity to eliminate them. Occupational hazard, you understand?" Father tried to dismiss the query._

 _The mustached man nodded. "Yes, comes with the territory."_

" _So you aren't going to hold me responsible for their loss. A surprisingly rational move from you, agent! I couldn't be more impressed!" Father beamed. It was the last time he'd ever smile with those teeth. The mustached man set himself upon her father, beating him in the mouth with a suitcase as tooth after tooth snapped and broke. The other two men who her father had been talking to intervened, pulling out their weapons and driving the mustached man away. As her father began to spit up the few teeth that still hung in his mouth, Olga took a moment to go over everything she had learned in her first hour of life. Although there was still much to process, she felt like she had learned everything there was to know about humanity._


End file.
